


The Crooked Heart

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Explicit Language, First Time, Gen, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-06
Updated: 2006-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.





	1. Return to the Burrow

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

**THE CROOKED HEART**

**Author’s Note:** This story will eventually be slash. You have been warned! Don’t give me reviews about how sordid I am, if you don’t like it don’t read it. It is also Post HBP.

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns most of the characters and places in this fan fiction. I am not profiting from this at all, I assure you, and I have no money so don’t bother suing me.

_“The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like ourselves.” – Umberto Eco_

Chapter One: Return to the Burrow

Harry Potter awoke with a start. Sweat poured liberally from his brow and down his chest. His pajama t-shirt clung irritatingly to his skin. He sat up quickly, swung his legs out of bed, and tried to calm his breathing, but the air seemed to stick in his throat. He could feel his heart thumping frantically somewhere inside his ribcage. Bile was slowly rising in his throat. He jumped off the bed, swung his bedroom door open, and sprinted to the bathroom before he was violently sick in the toilet. 

He vomited what felt like the entire contents of his stomach before it finally ceased. He feebly lowered himself to the floor beside the toilet and listened to it flush, and finally, when the pipes stopped drumming, he allowed his mind to wonder at the dream he’d just had. 

He did not remember much - such is the splendor and misery of nightmares. And of course, the harder he tried to recall any sort of detail, the more it disappeared. Lord Voldemort was there, he could remember that. The Dark Lord would always be at the heart of his nightmares. And he remembered Severus Snape, standing over a pile of … a pile of _something_ that Harry could not remember. 

He needed to get out of the bathroom. The walls had been recently painted a disgusting, decaying-looking yellow by his Uncle Vernon. The stench was not improving his need to make his insides, out. But he was hard-pressed to find the motivation to even wiggle his toes; due to lack of sleep and the summer heat. The cool tiles felt nice against his sweltering skin too. 

He had a feeling that his dream might not have been a dream at all, but insight into Voldemort’s current activities. A ‘vision’, if you will. After all, it wouldn’t have been the first time that Harry had unconsciously wandered into Voldemort’s mind. He felt a sudden urge to talk to someone about it and was almost pulling himself off the floor to write a letter, before remembering there was no one. Sirius had died over a year ago, and the loss of his first real father-figure still cut away inside him. Harry tried to remember the way he had felt last summer and wondered if it had been worse than this. He had felt like there was a black hole inside of him – where Sirius had been. And now, there were two. He decided that he was much worse off now. _With Albus Dumbledore dead_ , thought Harry, _we’re all worse off really_. 

Anger ate away at him as he thought back to the night the great Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, and his mentor, had finally met his end. He was angry at himself for being so naïve and not strong enough to have prevented it. He was angry at Dumbledore for dying and leaving him alone - a selfish anger, he knew, but he allowed the feeling all the same. He was most angry at Snape though, the man who had done the deed. Harry had never liked Snape. But he had, in some way, trusted him. He was furious beyond belief to find that he was foolish for doing so. 

Harry could not change the past though, no matter how much he wished he could. And he knew the “What-if?” game would not help him at all. Plus, he didn’t want to think about it an awful lot right now. The war really, had only just begun. And Harry’s side had already been handed the worst possible card.

Harry looked up through the window where the full moon shone innocently down at him, creating a jagged and dim light in the bathroom. He could not see well without his glasses on, so he closed his eyes, trying to let the anger ebb. 

The almost seventeen-year-old was nearly a man now. He was no longer short and scrawny but quite tall and burly. He towered over his cousin, and whilst Dudley Dursley still had a great bulk, Harry would probably stand a good chance in a fist-fight with him. Of course, it wouldn’t matter soon. Harry would be legally of age shortly, and the moment he was he doubted he would ever return to Number Four, Privet Drive.

This summer at the Dursleys’ had been the most peaceful Harry had ever experienced, and he was thankful for it. Dudley had got himself a girlfriend - a dumpy looking girl who plastered make-up over her face like a clown and made Dudley look like genius - and spent fifty percent of his time in his bedroom with her and the other fifty percent out of the house with her. Probably in _her_ bedroom. Harry didn’t really want to picture his cousin snogging or, God forbid, shagging anyone, and so had given him a wide berth.

His Uncle had decided to sell his drill company and spent most of his time at the factory, doing old file work that had never been done, taking care of debts, firing people, taking care of paper work for the sale, and firing some more people. This suited Harry just fine.

So Harry had spent the first two weeks of summer with his Aunt Petunia. It had not been that bad, really. With her husband and son’s constant absences, Aunt Petunia would invite Harry to eat every meal with her and for the first time in as long as Harry could remember being at the Dursleys’, he would feel full afterwards. They would not talk during their meals. In fact they didn’t really talk at all. Harry spent most of his time in his room, writing carefully worded letters to his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, reading spell books that he thought might help, and trying not to think too much about Dumbledore. But when Harry would sit opposite his Aunt, he would sometimes catch her looking at him with an expression he had not seen her give him before. Concern. 

Harry had not looked into it too much. Two years ago, he would’ve loved that sort of sympathy. But things had changed and Harry couldn’t really be bothered with it anymore. He knew who really cared about him and who didn’t, and he wasn’t going to waste his time trying to reconcile a relationship with his Aunt when he planned to leave her forever soon. But maybe she had other ideas?

Harry covered his eyes when a stream of light flooded into the bathroom. His Aunt stood in the threshold and let out a gasp when she saw him. She quickly checked herself.

“I thought I heard you get up,” she said in her usual crisp tones. “Are you sick?”

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah … no … I’m alright.”

“Well you can’t stay here, c’mon.” She walked over to him, hoisted him up onto his feet with surprising strength and walked him into the hall. She gasped again when she got a good look at his flushed skin. “You smell terrible! You’ve been sick, haven’t you?” Harry made no reply but shrugged nonchalantly. 

She marched Harry into his bedroom and pushed him down onto his bed so he lay flat on his back. She put her hand over his forehead. Harry thought it almost amusing really, that his Aunt had spent nearly his whole life avoiding even having to look at him, and now she was touching him.

She tsked. “You’ve got a fever.”

“I’m alright, really,” said Harry. “I just had a … nasty dream.”

She looked down at him with a slight frown of concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Harry snorted. He hadn’t meant to be rude; he knew she was trying to make an effort. But he was wary as to why, after all this time, she had decided to care.

She stiffened her upper lip and pulled her hand away. “You need something to drink. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Harry sighed and let his eyes wander about his room. The latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ stood on top of his desk. The front page was a message to Muggle-borns to set up wards around their homes and try and warn their neighbors of impending dangers without breaking any statutes. If that was even possible.

It made Harry think though. Maybe he should warn his Aunt and Uncle? No one could hurt them whilst inside the house, whilst Harry still called Privet Drive home. But what about when he leaves? There’s a good chance that they’ll be targets for Death Eaters due to their relation to Harry. There was no love lost between Harry and the Dursleys, but he did not wish death upon them.

Aunt Petunia came bustling back in the room and sat on the edge of his bed, handing him a glass of orange juice. Harry sat up, took a mouthful and put the glass on his bedside table.

“There’s something I should talk to you about,” said Harry, carefully.

Aunt Petunia moved closer to him. “Okay, but lie down, you’ve got a fever you need to rest.” She pushed him back down and left her hand on his chest. Harry decided to ignore the motherly-affection for the moment.

“You know the reason why I have to come here every summer, right?” asked Harry.

“Yes. It’s the only place you’re safe from that Lord Voldemort character,” said Aunt Petunia stiffly. Harry marveled once again at the ease in which the Dursleys spoke of Voldemort.

“Yeah, exactly.” Harry decided to be blunt. “But the thing is, I can’t hide from him anymore. I have to go and face him. And when I do, the moment I walk out the door in a couple of weeks, I won’t come back here. When that happens, the spell will disappear, and you won’t be safe from him, or the people that work for him.”

“You won’t come back?” Harry was surprised that she seemed genuinely upset at this news. He didn’t understand. He thought they’d be happy to be rid of him. Harry wondered what had gone on during the school term that had caused this sudden change of heart in his Aunt. Perhaps it had been Dumbledore’s harsh words last summer? When the now-former Headmaster has accused them – rightfully so – of abuse towards Harry.

“I can’t come back,” said Harry dismissively. “But that doesn’t matter. You just have to be careful, don’t let strangers in and if you see anyone that looks … well, like me – call the police and run away as fast as you can. I assure you, Dudley won’t even get close enough to give them ‘the old one, two.’ Lock your door, even during the day, and when Uncle Vernon and Dudley come home, have like, a password or something before you let them in so you know it’s really them. Wizards can make themselves look like other people with potions and stuff, so that’s really important.”

Aunt Petunia cringed at the words “wizards” and “potions” and Harry was relieved that Aunt Petunia hadn’t quite gone full-cycle-accepting-Aunt. She did nod her head in agreement though. 

“Good,” said Harry quietly. “And um, thanks for ah, everything.” Harry knew she didn’t deserve any thanks, they were hardly hospitable people. But he thought he should throw her a bone – if only a very small one.

She looked down and smiled a little. “I’m sorry Harry. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be your mother. Just like I’m sorry I couldn’t be Lily’s sister. You … you scare me Harry, you know?” Harry looked away from her, frowning. She sighed, “But I suppose it’s a bit late for this talk?”

Harry looked at her with serious eyes. “Yes, it is.”

She looked up at Hedwig who slept peacefully in her cage. “You’ve turned into a handsome little thing. And that Headmaster of yours seems to think very highly of you, at any rate. You’ll be alright, I’m sure.”

Harry looked down at the mention of Dumbledore, and did not say anything. He did, however, think about the handsome comment. Harry had never felt handsome in his life. In fact, most of the time, he just felt awkward and plain. But he had begun noticing little things that people said that contradicted his thinking. 

In his sixth year Harry had got much more attention from the female populace than he ever had before. He thought this was just because everyone now knew that Voldemort had returned and they were looking for a hero. Ginny Weasley had flattered him to no end as well; however, he didn’t really think that counted as they had been seeing each other. But Hermione had also made a few positive comments - much to Ron’s annoyance - about Harry’s physical appearance. And Luna Lovegood had told him once - when he’d been asking her to favor the Gryffindor players during a Quidditch match; he was only half serious - that it wasn’t fair to use his looks, “fluttering” his eyes and “flashing seductive smiles”, to get people to do things for him. He hadn’t thought on it at the time, but now he wondered if he really did give people “seductive smiles?”

More recently, on the second day of the summer, Dudley had brought his girlfriend and several of her friends home for lunch. Harry had slept in well past noon and came down the stairs in only his boxers to be greeted by the group. Dudley had introduced him like he was a dirty joke, but the girls had gone quiet and stared at him. A couple of the girls Harry recognized from primary school. He went to return to his room pretty quickly after that, but he heard snippets of their conversation whilst walking up the stairs.

“He’s hot,” Dudley’s girlfriend had said. “You never said he was hot. You said he was a freak.” 

Since then, Dudley had been trying to keep Harry out of view of his girlfriend when she was over.

Harry did not know how he felt about being considered good-looking. Hermione had once said, “God never hands you both cards,” and that a good-looking person “normally suffers severely in other areas.” She and Parvati Patil had then proceeded to list several boys that suffered from this affliction:

“Roger Davies – stupid,” started Hermione. “Blaise Zabini – arrogant, amongst other things. Oliver Wood – obsessive. Fred and George – hooligans-” 

“Fred and George are good-looking?!” Ron had spluttered.

“Quite,” said Parvati with a raised eyebrow. “Zacharias Smith – annoying. Draco Malfoy – the prince of evil.”

“Malfoy _isn’t_ good-looking!” Ron nearly had a coronary. 

Harry wasn’t sure that he wanted to be good-looking if it meant he lacked in more important areas. As Harry lay on his bed under his Aunt’s gaze he could see Parvati Patil’s image in his head; “Harry Potter – hero complex.” 

Harry scowled as he lay there in silence, Aunt Petunia’s hand still on his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. Harry’s mind continued to speculate about trivial things as he attempted to avoid thinking of Dumbledore and Sirius and Hogwarts and horcruxes. Slowly, Harry began to drift off to sleep. 

He was not aware that his Aunt sat there beside him all night, one hand on his chest and the other brushing away his hair. She stayed there until her husband got up, requesting breakfast. Harry did not know that as she’d sat by his side, she had _felt_ something for him. Something that went beyond the guilt and obligation that had plagued her for the last year and had caused her to, at the very least, be respectful to Harry. What she’d felt was something a little like pride and hope. Something a little like love.

**(())**

_Harry,_

_Hey mate! How are you? How’s your summer? Are the Muggles treating you right? Dad said that you can come and stay with us now, if you like. It’ll be good you know; everyone’s here for Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Lots of Ministry people too, for protection. Fleur’s parents are driving mum crazy and I think she’s beginning to regret giving Bill and Fleur her blessing, but there’s not a lot she can do now._

_Have you been reading the Prophet? They had a special on Dumbledore, mentioned you about sixty-five times and Professor McGonagall said some stuff. They’re keeping Hogwarts open for now, and some people are going back. I know Luna and Neville are, and so are Dean and Seamus. Mum wants us to go back too. I haven’t told her that we’re not, but I probably should before she buys our text books. It’s just hard – things have been a bit tense._

_Anyway, if you want to come to the wedding, just send Pig back with a reply and we’ll come and get you one week before that day that is very special for you (don’t know who might be reading this). If you don’t want to come to the wedding, send Pig with a reply and we’ll come and get you anyway because I can’t take Hermione and mum’s constant “Poor Harry, oh I’d wish he’d write more! Ron! I hope you’re writing to him!” Women._

_See you soon, Harry!_

_Ron_

_P.S Percy showed up to the wedding rehearsal. It wasn’t good. Fred and George, Bill and Charlie and even a few of the garden gnomes nearly killed him. Mum’s not talking to any of them (including the gnomes). I told her that I would’ve joined in if I wasn’t holding Ginny back – she’s still underage – so she’s not talking to me either. Oh well._

Harry smiled and turned the parchment over to write his reply. If they were coming to get him a week before his birthday – they would be here tomorrow.

_Ron,_

_It’s okay, I’ll come willingly. I’d like to see the wedding. Just try and come in the afternoon when my uncle and cousin are likely to be out._

_See you soon,_

_Harry_

_P.S Not that I blame you guys or anything – but it does seem like Percy’s making an effort. That’s gotta count for something, right?_

Harry folded the parchment up and tied it to the excited little owl’s leg and opened the window. Pigwidgeon soared out with a gust of wind flailing the little bird about. Hedwig hooted softly from her cage. Harry went over to her and pulled her out, stroking her head affectionately. “Well, I should probably start packing up now.” Harry allowed himself a moment to reminisce on his time at Privet Drive, almost desperate to find a fond memory. But there were none. Harry could not help but be happy to say goodbye. 

**(())**

A group of five men and a woman arrived to take her nephew just after one o’clock. 

Petunia Dursley watched from the doorway as Harry hugged a handsome and bedraggled-looking man. The red-headed teenage boy kept looking at Harry, trying to fight off happy tears. _These people_ , Petunia thought, _are very stressed and anxious_ s. She could spot it in their relief at seeing Harry alive and well. She witnessed it in their undernourished bodies and hollow eyes. She wondered how important Harry really was to them. 

They walked out the back door together, oblivious to Petunia following them curiously. The big, black man pulled out a deflated basketball and each of them placed a hand on it. Petunia stood at the back door, her eyes on her nephew. At the last moment he turned around and met her gaze. She could not decipher his face because she did not know it well enough, but suddenly, he smiled at her. Then raised his free hand in goodbye and was gone. They all disappeared in a blink of an eye but Petunia could still see her nephew there, with his small smile and raised hand. A gesture that meant a lot to Petunia, mainly because she knew she did not deserve it.

Immersed in her guilt, Petunia did not seem to feel the house almost groan in pain as a powerful charm that had been protecting the occupants for fifteen years, dissolved to nothing.

**(())**

Harry and Ron stifled their snickers as best they could as the over-zealous pastor, shouting at the top of his lungs in French, flapped his arms about hitting Fleur and Bill across the head in succession. Hermione sat next to Ron and slapped him hard on the thigh which only made Harry gigglier. Harry noticed that Fred had slid down his chair trying to hide his tears of laughter. George had done the same but had performed a clever silencing charm and he laughed freely.

Up until the point where the pastor – hand picked by Fleur’s mother - had opened his mouth, the ceremony had been beautiful. Fleur had her inner-Veela in full effect and Bill’s scars from his werewolf attack had faded a little. Although, to be truthful, if you weren’t told it was Bill Weasley underneath all that fleshy mess, you wouldn’t know. 

The only thing that appeared against them was the weather. It was as if winter and summer were battling; the sky was grey and stormy but the air was thick and humid.

The Burrow’s backyard had been transformed and there were no weeds in sight, but beautiful white and red roses lacing the aisle, and doves nesting in the surrounding trees. There was an enormous buffet, and chairs and tables covered in white linen cloths filled up what had formerly been the Weasley’s home-made Quidditch Pitch. Everybody looked clean and neat in their best robes.

Harry had watched as Ginny walked up the aisle in a soft green gown that seemed to hug everything and show even more. Harry had tried his best to remind himself that his reasons for breaking up with her were still as important now as they were then. His mind was well shot of her and honestly wanted nothing more than friendship and loyalty from her – but his lower brain was having other thoughts. He’d never let his libido rule his mind before and he really didn’t want to start now, and so had decided to steer clear of her.

After what felt like six hours, Bill and Fleur kissed and began walking down the aisle, everybody stood and cheered as the doves circled overhead and the reception started. “About time,” Fred said. “God, I need a firewhiskey.” Evidently, many felt the same as people began filing over to the tables. 

Hermione took Ron’s hand and marched him over to the buffet, telling him off for his “disrespectful behavior” during the ceremony. Harry walked slowly behind but was stopped by a pair of arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him behind one of the trees the doves had claimed. They hooted indignantly.

“Hello stranger,” Ginny said, standing far too close.

“Hey Ginny,” Harry said a little breathlessly. “You look lovely.”

Ginny snorted. “I look like a slut.”

_Yes, you do_. “Nah, it’s nice and … tight … or whatever.” Harry started going red. He tried hard to avoid looking at her cleavage because he was sixteen years old and looking at linoleum made him want to have sex, and he didn’t really want to talk about what an attractive girl’s breasts were doing to him.

Ginny laughed and took his hand. “Come here, I wanna show you something.” Ginny started leading him away from the reception. 

“But shouldn’t we-? I mean they might-”

“Don’t worry Harry, there’s like a billion people here, they won’t miss us for a moment.” Ginny lead Harry to the back door of the Burrow and then upstairs to her bedroom. Harry didn’t like the way Ginny kept staring down at him as they walked up the stairs. He had to get out of this situation because his aforementioned lower brain was slowly starting to take over from his much more rational one. Once inside her bedroom, Harry took a moment to study the pristine decoration of the room by her door, warily. The walls were a soft pink and paintings of ballerinas and baby animals laced the walls. It did not make Harry feel better about the situation. “So what is it?”

Ginny smiled. “I found this in the attic.” She opened up her beside drawer and pulled out a dusty looking photograph. Harry took it from her and saw his parents. His mother was holding him and laughing at James who was pulling faces at a baby Harry. There were others in the photograph, as well, but the only one Harry recognized was Sirius. “I thought you might like it.”

Harry forced a smile. “Thanks Ginny.”

Ginny smiled in return and walked over to him. “You’re welcome.” 

In the past, Harry had treasured any story or item that might make him closer to his parents. But too much had happened. Now, it was just a painful reminder of what he didn’t have. Harry put the photograph in his robe pocket. “So maybe we should go back now.” Harry made to turn around and open the door but Ginny pushed him against it and covered his mouth with hers before he’d even reached the handle. 

Harry, having anticipated this for a few minutes now, pushed her away quickly. “Ginny, I thought we said that we wouldn’t do this anymore. You know it’s not safe-”

“I’m hardly safe anyway, Harry,” she cut him off impatiently, her eyes on his mouth. “Think about what family I’m from.” She kissed him again as he tried to pull away but she had him pinned. He was contemplating pulling out his wand and using it against her when her hand dropped to his crotch. He panicked, knowing he was unlikely to leave this room as innocent as he was when he arrived.

He moved his head to the side to escape her kiss. “Please Ginny; I don’t want to do this.”

She looked down with a smirk. “Are you sure?” She kissed him again and was forcefully stroking him. Then she pulled away from him and Harry thought she was going to let him go. But she only grabbed him again and threw him on her bed. 

Harry went to sit up but she was on top of him before he knew it and her hand was back on his crotch – only inside his pants now – and his cock was definitely in control and he finally began kissing her back. She tasted like wine - although Harry did not have sufficient knowledge of the liquor to know what kind - and Harry wondered if she’d been psyching herself up for this. He rolled over so he was on top of her and she wrapped her legs around his waist tightly.

At the back of Harry’s brain, his rational mind began preparing a speech about all the things that were bad about losing your virginity to your best friend’s little sister at her older brother’s wedding. At this moment though, these wise words were very much wasted.

Typical of the curse of the first time, it did not last very long, they did not use protection and Harry failed to see the big deal. Not to say he didn’t like it, but if Harry was honest, all the touching and kissing that led up to the point of actual sex was probably the best bit. Ginny, however, seemed perfectly content. 

Harry lay half under her sheet staring up at the ceiling as his rational brain gave him the biggest talking to he’d ever had in his life. Ginny was talking beside him but he was not listening. Suddenly, Harry sat up quickly as if trying to shake off a bad dream. 

“What’s wrong?” she said quickly. “Is someone coming?”

Harry looked to the door. “God, I hope not.”

“Then why do you look like Malfoy just beat you at Quidditch?” 

Harry frowned. “Malfoy will never beat me at Quidditch.”

“Damn straight,” said Ginny. “We better get dressed – they’ll start looking for us soon.”

Harry looked away as Ginny stepped out from under the sheets and began putting her clothes on. “We shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly. 

She stopped dressing and Harry could imagine the expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

He looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to meet her gaze. He knew he was about to dig himself into a hole, but he couldn’t help himself. “It’s just … I mean, shit this is _Bill’s wedding_ and your _entire family_ is out there and we’re not even together anymore and you know I’m not gonna be around much for this whole year at least, and then probably after that _if_ I actually live through it. And Ron would kill me if he knew I had sex with you not to mention your parents-”

“Exactly Harry!” said Ginny. “I’m not going to see you for ages! I wanted you to be my first and if we love each other then this makes perfect sense! Plus, I thought I could come with you. I have no idea what you’re doing but I’ve heard Hermione and Ron talking and I know they’re going with you - wherever it is you’re going. I’m not like everyone else, running scared. I wanna fight Harry because what’s going on, it’s just … everything about it is so wrong and I want to fight! I want to fight with you.” She said all this very quickly trying to cover every base, almost as if she had known what his response would be. This made Harry angry. He hated being predictable.

He shook his head and started getting dressed. _What the hell is going on?_ he thought. Not once had he said to Ron and Hermione that they could come with him, they’d just assumed they would, and Ginny _certainly_ wasn’t. She couldn’t do magic outside of school for a start. And as for loving Ginny, well, he wasn’t entirely sure what love was, but the fact that he didn’t know was probably a good indication that he didn’t currently feel it. He certainly cared about her plenty. She was his favourite person to be around after her brother and Hermione. He admired her courage too, because she was right, most people were running or hiding. But at this stage, there was very little she could do to help, and in all honesty she’d probably just get in the way.

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” said Harry, frowning. “Let’s just go back to the reception.”

Ginny scowled. “No. _I_ want to talk about this _now_.”

Harry sighed. Ginny’s effrontery was normally something Harry liked about her – but right now, he couldn’t deal with it. He stood up to leave. Ginny stormed over to him, her dress on but not zipped up, and grabbed his arm.

“Don’t walk away!” she said crossly. “I’m going to ignore that I just gave you my virginity and you don’t seem to give a shit, for the moment, and focus on the subject at hand. Do you ever think about any of us? You think you’re the only one that deserves to fight? You think you’re the only one with a _reason_ to fight?”

Harry gave her hard look. “No, I don’t.” His anger was rising and he let it so he would forget about the guilt of Ginny’s first claim. Which he feared was true.

“Then why won’t you let us? You’re not the only one with something to lose!”

“ _Lose_?!” Harry shouted, glaring at her. Ginny cowered. “I’ve lost _everything_! I don’t have a real home; I don’t have any sort of relative in our world! Everywhere I go, I’m in danger and increasing the danger to any person or object that’s in a one kilometer radius! All I have left is Hermione and your family. And you lot are all hell- _fucking_ -bent on getting yourselves killed!”

“Harry!” Hermione and Ron rushed into the room. “What’s going on?” Ron looked concernedly at Ginny who was about to cry and then to Harry who was about to blow something up. Hermione though, took a look around the room and obviously guessed what had taken place because she started bustling Ron out, lest he also realize.

“Come on, we’ll talk out the front, it’s too little a room for shouting matches,” Hermione laughed weakly in an unsuccessful attempt at lightening the mood. She pushed Harry out the door and quickly zipped Ginny’s dress up. They walked out to the front yard, Ginny crying quietly and Ron asking questions, “What’s going on? We heard you shouting, Harry.”

“What have you been talking to each other about in public?” Harry glared accusingly at Hermione and a few doves flew out of a neighbouring tree in annoyance, hooting down at them. The sounds of shouting and music drifted to them from the wedding at the back of the house.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, bewildered.

“Well Ginny’s under the impression that we’re all _going somewhere_ together and _she_ wants to _come_ ,” Harry said significantly.

Ron scoffed. “You’re not coming Ginny, and don’t eaves-drop on private conversations.” Ginny punched Ron hard on the arm and bit her lip trying to hold back sobs.

“No, she’s not coming,” said Harry angrily, crossing his arms. “And neither are you two.”

“What?!” shouted Ron.

“Harry! You can’t leave us out!” said Hermione.

“Oh, but he can leave _me_ out?” Ginny stalked off crying loudly and as Harry watched her retreating back he felt like an absolute bastard.

“I’ll talk to her, you two stay here. We’ll talk when I get back.” Harry ran to catch up with Ginny who was heading around the side of the house and kicking the chickens away angrily.

“Ginny stop! I’m sorry, I’m being an asshole, let me explain.”

She turned around and hit him hard in the chest and Harry pulled her to him, trying to hug her. She kept hitting him but he held on and finally, she stopped. She cried into his chest for a minute before Harry could formulate a safe, constructive sentence.

“I’m sorry Ginny, about everything. But really, you can’t come.” Ginny made to interrupt so Harry quickly continued. “You can’t do magic outside of Hogwarts and you still have heaps to learn. You’ll be safe at Hogwarts until you’re old enough to fight. There are still things you can do, you know that. Look, I just want you to be safe because I …” Harry swallowed. “I lo- love you.” 

It was a lie and Harry knew he might end up paying for it in the future, but at this moment he had to focus on the now and he knew it was what she wanted to hear. What she _needed_ to hear.

She smiled at him and Harry could see the anger and frustration ease out of her face. “I love you too. But,” her face became stern, “I won’t be made useless.”

Harry smiled at her. “Go back to Hogwarts and continue the DA. People need to be trained and aware – I reckon you’d do a pretty good job.” Harry made it sound as if he’d planned on her doing this all along, but he had only just thought of it then.

Ginny beamed. “I … okay. But Harry, you have to owl me! I need to know that you’re okay.”

“Of course. I better talk to those idiots,” Harry said, motioning to Ron and Hermione. “You should go back to the reception. You are a bridesmaid after all.”

“Yeah.” Ginny kissed him and turned to leave. “I forgive you, Potter. But don’t do it again.”

Harry nodded his head and waited until she was out of sight before letting his façade fall. He felt worse, if it were even possible, for lying to Ginny. He was leading her on. The end would justify the means, but exactly how many people would he have to lie to or alienate in order to keep everyone safe?

He headed back to Ron and Hermione. The moment he was close enough to hear them they began their speech.

“Stop! Just stop,” he interrupted them. “I want you to come. But don’t tell Ginny, okay?”

They looked relieved. “I thought you weren’t going to let us,” said Ron.

“I wasn’t,” said Harry. He rubbed his forehead wearily. “But I was being stupid; I can’t do it on my own.”

Hermione smiled warmly. “And you’ll never have to.”

**(())**

Draco Malfoy kept his face blank of any emotion other than his usual sneer of disgust. He took in his familiar surroundings, the neat and expensive furniture, the bar, the bay windows and deep green hearth rug. He’d lived at the Manor his whole life, except when at Hogwarts or on holidays, but somehow it seemed different. Without the presence of his father, things had certainly been odd, but there was something else too. Something had changed here. Or maybe something had changed inside of him?

“Do you want some tea, Severus?” Narcissa Malfoy asked Draco’s former professor.

“Thank you, Narcissa,” said Snape. Snape had arrived at the Manor directly from the Dark Lord, and Draco feared Snape’s news. The last time Draco had been summoned to his Master, he had been made to feel very sorry for his weaknesses during the school year, and so had his mother. Draco watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was paler than usual and looked a little frumpy. Something usually unheard of when describing Narcissa.

“Wido!” Narcissa called and an elderly, male house-elf appeared with a pop. “Some tea for Master Severus.”

Wido the house-elf bowed low and left with another pop.

“So, how is the Dark Lord?” asked Narcissa cautiously.

“You need not worry,” said Snape nonchalantly. “It seems his anger at Draco has diminished.”

Narcissa let out a sigh and Draco watched her try and settle her hands. He looked away feeling shame but not daring to show it.

“We are very lucky the Dark Lord is so merciful,” said Narcissa quietly. “Are we not, Draco?”

Draco said nothing.

“Draco?” Narcissa pursued.

“Yes,” said Draco faintly. “Very lucky.”

There was another pop and Wido appeared with a tray of tea, bowed low again and left. Narcissa moved forward to pour the tea but her shaking hands made it awfully difficult. 

“Leave it Mother,” said Draco. “I will do it.”

Narcissa moved back, looking embarrassed. 

“I can make a potion for you, Narcissa. To ease the shaking,” said Snape. Draco handed him his tea. “Thank you, Draco.”

“There is no need Severus, Draco has already made it. I was much worse before; now it is only my hands.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

They sat in silence for several minutes as Draco refused to look either of them in the eye. Instead he focused his eyes and thoughts on a painting of the great Clydesdale that was grazing in lush meadows. He had always wanted a horse, but his father had refused him claiming it was a dirty-muggle-farm-creature, and so Draco had settled for this painting at a gallery in Versailles. 

“How are you, Draco?” asked Snape, breaking the silence.

“Fine,” said Draco, eyes still on the Clydesdale that was now looking back at him.

“You did not do so badly. The Dark Lord knows that I would not have succeeded if it had not been for you,” said Snape simply. “Although it was _your_ mission, and you did technically fail, you showed your intelligence and for that, you are given another chance.”

Draco again, said nothing. 

“But you should know,” Snape continued carefully. “That you must not behave like that when you are punished. You displeased him. That is why he continued it. If there is a next time, you must take it quietly.”

“He is just protective,” explained Narcissa. “Like his father.”

“That is neither here nor there in the Dark Lord’s eyes. Draco did not complete his mission. He knew he would be punished.”

“But I wasn’t,” said Draco, finally meeting Snape’s eyes. “My mother was.”

Snape looked at him assiduously and Draco cleared his mind so Snape could not see his thoughts with Legilimency. Draco stood up abruptly. “I have things to do.”

“Goodbye, Draco.”

Draco made no reply gesture and walked from the drawing room, closing the door behind him. The moment it was shut he let out an anxious breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. He looked ghostly and frightened. He had lost weight in the last ten months – something he’s slender frame could not afford. It made him look stretched and unhealthy. But then he supposed he was. 

He had found it hard to eat since the night in the North Tower. At night he dreamed of Dumbledore’s face and the blinding, green light emitting from Snape’s wand. The old man’s face haunted him like nothing else he had ever witnessed or dreamed on the darkest nights had. Draco had never had any particular regard for Dumbledore and it troubled him that he should care so much. Dumbledore was much more useful to Draco dead, right?

Draco looked away from the mirror and headed upstairs towards the east wing. As he walked in the lifeless corridors, filled with wealth but devoid of soul, the little voice in his head reminded him of Dumbledore’s offer. Draco quickly pushed it from his mind. It would not do well to dwell on such things. But no matter how hard he tried, it continued to resurface.

When alone in his room, Draco would find himself day-dreaming about what could have happened if he had immediately accepted Dumbledore’s offer and had taken the old man to safety. He had imagined Dumbledore thanking him for his altruism in saving him and reward him by hiding him and his mother in New Zealand or something. Oh, and he’d release his father from Azkaban too, and they could go on with their lives as if none of this had happened. But all too soon, Draco would come crashing back to reality. Dumbledore was dead, his father was in Azkaban, and he was all alone. _Besides_ , Draco chided himself, _Dumbledore probably wouldn’t have come through on his promise. He would’ve tried to make me join that blasted little club of his and I’d be surrounded by Mudbloods and blood-traitors all day. Or worse, Saint Potter._ And Draco was definitely not inclined to suffer that.

He opened his bedroom door and jumped a little as he saw Blaise Zabini lounging carelessly over his lady chair in cerulean robes. Blaise was staying at Malfoy Manor until his mother returned from Africa. What Mrs. Zabini was doing there, Draco did not know. 

Blaise looked up at him and Draco quickly masked his emotions with a sneer of indifference. “The little house-elf let me in your room,” Blaise said, waving his hand haughtily and referring to Draco’s personal house-elf, Malachy.

Draco nodded his head and Blaise rubbed his left arm. “Does it always hurt this much?” Blaise and several others among Draco’s friends had received the Dark Mark at the end of the school year, and had joined him in the service to the Dark Lord. One friend that had not joined them, however, was Theodore Nott. He had fled on his own with other teenage Slytherins. Draco had not seen them since his seventeenth birthday on June fifth.

Blaise had been surprised at their fleeing, Draco had not. Theodore and a few others had appeared more and more anxious as the year had progressed. Draco was almost positive that Theodore had tried to approach Potter too, on one occasion. To say what, Draco knew not. But it mattered little as Weasley had insulted him away before Theodore had even opened his mouth. 

Also, Theodore had told Draco off for making banter at the murder of a muggle-born last year. “Have you ever seen someone being murdered?” Theodore had asked with a frown on his face.

“Not yet, but I live in hope,” said Draco to laughter from their surrounding friends.

“Well I have. It’s not what you think.”

Draco had sneered. “Do you _care_ about Mudbloods?”

“Of course not,” Theodore snapped. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just … not what you think.” 

Draco was beginning to understand Theodore’s words, though he had dismissed them very quickly at the time. Theodore’s parents and older sister had been severely punished by the Dark Lord, as had the other families for their children’s desertion.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Draco who was absentmindedly clearing his desk in an attempt at hiding his distress. It was covered with old school books that he’d been meaning to throw out.

“Probably,” said Blaise who stood up and walked over to Draco. He put his hands on Draco’s hips and turned him around, smiling seductively.

“Are you alright? You seem a little distracted,” said Blaise, who moved closer to Draco and was softly kissing his neck.

“It’s um, just, ah … Snape. He’s here.”

Blaise chuckled. “Tends to bring out the worst in people, does Snape.”

“He does,” said Draco quietly. Blaise pressed his lips to Draco’s and they began to kiss. Draco’s heart was not in it, it hadn’t been for days. But he couldn’t be bothered to call it off. Besides, sometimes the company was nice.

Draco had not known that Blaise was homosexual - or as Blaise liked to say, “just sexual”. The night after he had received his punishment from the Dark Lord, Draco had drunk up a storm with Blaise, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. They had just started on the absinthe, when before he knew what had happened, he and Blaise were making out. Luckily, the other three had blacked out long before then, so as not to bear witness.

As far as Draco’s sexuality was concerned, he had finally admitted to himself that he was gay and had stopped gallivanting around with Pansy, but he had absolutely no intention of removing himself from the closet into which he was securely locked. Homosexuality was no scarcer in the Wizarding World than the Muggle; in fact, there was probably a larger percentage due to the recent discovery of potions that could cause male pregnancies. But still, it was not viewed kindly by many. Mainly those that also persecuted muggles, muggle-borns and half-bloods.

Blaise was an odd kisser for a man, Draco had observed. He was particularly gentle and slow. Draco was a little bit fierier than that and he began to get bored. As his mind wandered it invariably strayed back to the North Tower. Draco had been in a daze as Snape had grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the castle. Draco remembered that Snape had led him to the entrance gate and then had suddenly turned back. Draco couldn’t remember why and he strained his memory, trying to get something. Without warning, another green flash exploded into his mind. But this green was different.

Draco swiftly pulled away from Blaise and breathlessly said, “I need to get something for my mother, I’ll be back in minute.” 

He ran out the room and sprinted to the library at the end of the corridor. Once inside he quickly shut the door, and the green flashed again. It was the piercing green behind a pair of eyes. Eyes that shone so many things. Anger, confusion, hurt, hate. They were like a well or the ocean. They were quicksand. They had stared at Snape whilst Draco stood by the gate at Hogwarts. They were eyes that had followed them from the North Tower. They were emerald windows into the soul of Harry Potter.

Dumbledore had lied to him. The old Professor had not been alone that night. Potter had seen everything. 

**(())**

Harry walked down the stairs to breakfast in a somber mood. This was not unusual for his birthday, although now at seventeen, he could at least do magic outside of Hogwarts - which was handy as he was not returning there.

He opened the kitchen door and the smell of bacon and eggs wafted up to him. He had expected a couple of “Happy Birthdays” from the Weasley’s, but as he glanced around the kitchen, there were only solemn faces. 

“What’s going on?” asked Harry.

Mr. Weasley stood up and walked towards Harry, he’s face like ash. “There’s been another Death Eater attack, Harry. I … well, I found out last night but you were all asleep. It’s … well, you can read it in the _Prophet_.”

Mr. Weasley handed Harry the _Daily Prophet_ and Harry lifted it up to read apprehensively. 

_PROMINENT WIZARDING FAMILY SLAUGHTERED_

_“Yesterday afternoon the Wood family was found brutally murdered in their Manchester home. Peter and Patti, and their children Oliver, Gregrick and Lucindah were found under the Dark Mark by their neighbours. ‘We didn’t know it was happening,’ cried Gertie Pugman. ‘My littlest just poked his head out the window and then started shouting. He saw that horrible mark!’_

_Aurors believe there was a struggle. ‘They certainly did not go quietly,’ said a grave looking Nymphadora Tonks. ‘There is strong evidence to suggest they put up a fight.’ Mr. and Mrs. Wood were believed to have died via the Avada Kedavra curse, but the children were allegedly found in pieces. ‘We believe it was werewolves,’ said a continually paling Ms. Tonks. ‘Though how many, we cannot say at this time.’_

_This attack comes after only days in which families from across the country have been leaving their homes for Ministry shelters - page four continued.”_

Harry looked at the front page; a family picture of the Woods was on the front. Harry’s mind flashed back to the time when Harry first met Oliver, the handsome, young Quidditch Captain. He saw his smiling, fanatical face in his mind and Harry felt sick to the core. 

He dropped the Prophet and stomped back up the stairs, his face and mind numb. Ron and Hermione followed him up, saying nothing. Harry reached Ron’s room and pulled out his trunk.

“What are you doing?” asked Hermione. She was wringing her hands and biting her lower lip fretfully.

“If you want to come with me,” said Harry, his face like steel, “pack your things. We’re leaving tonight.”

Ron loudly swallowed the lump in his throat.

**(())**

… to be continued.

**Author’s Note:** Thanks so much to Kristin (a.k.a. **AbundantFear** ) and Nicki (a.k.a. **Aurilia** ) for their wonderful beta jobs. This story would be horse shit without them.

**raining_slash**


	2. Godric's Hollow

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“Only he may say he has done everything he could, who paid the price of death.” – Wladyshaw Bartoszewski_

Chapter Two: Godric’s Hollow

Harry squinted in the dark and then jumped a little as the popping sounds of Ron and Hermione apparating next to him broke through the silent night air. He looked around and could vaguely make out the line of their figures.

_“Lumos!”_ said Harry and the tip of his wand glowed brightly in the dark. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Hermione pulled out a glossy book from her robes. “Yes, this looks right. I’ve never used a Wizarding Street Directory before, but it’s fundamentally the same as Muggle Directories.”

Harry sighed and held his wand aloft, the street illuminated. There were large brick houses on both sides. They looked tidy but still rather gloomy – like no one had lived in them for a while. There were weeds in the front yards and the letterboxes were crammed with mail and there were no lights on.

“Sorry-looking place, isn’t it?” said Ron, standing behind Harry, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Just a little,” said Harry. He took a deep breath and began walking forward.

“We probably shouldn’t stay here too long, Harry,” said Hermione walking after him. “Mrs. Weasley would’ve noticed we’ve disappeared by now and Ginny will be incensed at us for leaving her behind. Plus, Lupin will probably know to try looking here.”

“We won’t be long, don’t worry.”

“Jeez,” said Ron irritably. “My trunk is sticking in to my hip-bone.” He pulled out his shrunken suitcase. “Can you shrink it a bit more, Hermione?”

Hermione waved her wand and Ron put his now match-box sized suitcase back in his robe pocket.

“What do you think happened here?” asked Harry. “Where is everyone?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious really,” said Hermione.

“Care to enlighten us then,” muttered Ron. “’Cause it looks like Ghost Town to me.”

“The people have left, of course,” said Hermione tartly.

“Oh! Is that what’s happened?” said Ron sarcastically.

“Because of Voldemort,” said Hermione crossly. “I mean, this is the last place he attacked the previous time, wasn’t it? It would’ve made people more than a little nervous!”

“I really wish you wouldn’t say his name.”

“Harry does!”

“Yeah, well. That’s Harry, isn’t it?”

“Will you two shut-up for a _minute_?” interrupted Harry. Ron and Hermione had been squabbling since they’d snuck out of the Burrow. Harry thought it might be out of nervousness and that made him feel a little guilty, but still, bickering wouldn’t help anything.

After Harry had told Ron and Hermione they were leaving, they had all packed their things hurriedly, shrunk their suitcases and then had pretended to go out the back for a bit of stargazing. Everyone in the house was far too upset over the Wood family’s murder to realise it was morning. 

When they had crossed the fences bordering off the Weasley property, Ron and Hermione had looked at Harry expectantly. It was then Harry considered that perhaps his actions had been a bit rash. So they had spent the entire morning trying to formulate a plan. He hadn’t really thought about where to start. Hermione had sighed at him. “Look,” she’d said after three hours of bickering about whether to return to the Burrow for some floo powder. “I brought this. It’s a Wizard Street Directory. It’ll show us detailed images of streets so we can apparate there. Why don’t we start with Godric’s Hollow, Harry?”

“Yeah alright,” said Harry rubbing his forehead tiredly. “It’s what I’d intended to do at the start of the summer, anyway.”

After three unsuccessful attempts at getting all three of them to apparate successfully to Godric’s Hollow – one attempt where Ron nearly splinched himself – they were finally there, under the early night’s darkness. They were looking for Harry’s parents’ house but they weren’t sure which one it might be. They all looked like very different homes but Harry could see no sign that might distinguish _his_ from all the others in the neighborhood. 

“Look!” said Ron suddenly. “There are names on the letterboxes! Family names.”

“Well that’ll make it easier. We should split up, and send green sparks up when we find it. Red sparks if we get into trouble,” said Harry.

Hermione headed back where they’d come from, whilst Ron turned left down Buzzbee Avenue and Harry turned right down Periwinkle Street. 

The houses on Periwinkle Street seemed to be a little grander than the others. But they, like the rest, were completely deserted. Harry continued down the street, reading the names on the letterboxes. Harry wondered were all these families were, the Yates’s, the Polanski’s, the Smith’s and Harrington’s. Were they in Ministry shelters? Did they have small children? Were they Death Eaters? Did they leave their homes the moment the Ministry revealed Voldemort’s return? Harry had images of crowded halls with children crying and afraid. He felt an overwhelming pity for these people. And a sense of helplessness.

Then Harry stopped suddenly. 

_Potter._

The letterbox was made out of hard red brick, and _Potter_ was written in shining gold wire. Harry slowly lifted his head and held his wand aloft. The light brightened and Harry looked upon the house that had once been his home. 

It was huge. Much bigger than the Burrow. Harry wondered what his parents had done for a living to be able to afford a home like this. It had huge oak front doors and bay windows. It was three stories tall and there was a balcony on both the second and third story. He wondered where his room was. 

He stepped back suddenly and lowered his wand, not wanting to become overwhelmed. He had to be businesslike about this; there would be time for grief when it was all over. 

_“Nox,”_ said Harry. The light on his wand turned off and he sent up green sparks. Not ten seconds later, Hermione apparated in front of him, followed by Ron. 

Hermione lit her wand and held it up. “We have to be careful.” 

“Why?” said Ron. “There’s no one here. We could play Quidditch _naked_ and it wouldn’t matter.”

Hermione snorted. “As usual, only thinking plainly.”

“Well why don’t you just tell us what you’re on about instead of being all cryptic. It’s really annoying, you know!” said Ron.

“You’re really annoying, you know,” bit back Hermione.

“No. You are _both_ really annoying!” said Harry, turning around and scowling at them. “Ron, stop picking a fight with everything Hermione says.” Hermione looked smugly at Ron. “Hermione, stop being cryptic and just tell us what you’re on about.” Ron returned the expression.

“Fine,” said Hermione snottily. “I could be wrong, it’s only speculation, but I’ll be surprised if there isn’t a Domus Custos Charm on a big place like this.”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron in comprehension.

“A Doma-whatta?” said Harry in confusion. 

“Domus Custos. It’s like, keeping a reservation on the house so that it always passes down the blood-line. Grimmauld Place had one. That’s why Dumbledore was surprised Sirius managed to give it to you. Sirius must have broken the charm somehow,” said Hermione. “So because you’re the closest blood relative to your parents, you would now own the house. But you have to claim it first. The doors won’t open ‘til you do.”

“How do I do that?” asked Harry, picturing mountains of paper work.

“I’m not sure,” said Hermione.

“Ha!” said Ron. “I know. Come with me.”

Harry and Hermione followed Ron through the double-door gates and up the pebbled path to the front door. Once standing before the big oak doors Ron looked at Harry expectantly.

“What do I do?” said Harry.

“You knock of course.”

“Knock?”

“Yes,” said Ron. “You knock.”

“Are you sure Ron?” asked Hermione, skeptically.

“Of course I’m sure! Look, Dad inherited a property from our old Aunt Muriel a couple of summers ago. Disgusting place, Dad’s renting it for knuts, couldn’t get any better. Anyway, this is what he did,” Ron explained. “You see, if you are the next in the blood-line, when you go to knock on the door you’ll unconsciously like, do this family knock thing which signifies the new owner. The charm will temporarily disappear until you die, and you can open the doors.” Ron smiled confidently.

“Well,” said Harry. “Alright then.” He stepped forwards slowly and raised his fist and gulped loudly, having no idea what sort of knock he should produce. Then suddenly Harry felt like he had just been hypnotized, and very naturally he did four quick knocks, a small break, and then another two. 

There was a sharp whistle in the air and the apple tree in the front yard swayed viciously. Then there was the sound of several locks being undone behind the door. The whistling stopped and the apple tree stood up right again and Harry, still in a little bit of trance, pushed the door open.

As they walked into the entrance hall, candles began lighting in bursts around them until they could see clearly without their lit-wands. 

“Wow,” muttered Hermione. “This place is great.”

The house certainly looked very grand. The floors were polished and tapestries and paintings covered the walls. There was a long, thick red carpet that led up the stairs, and that’s were Harry, his heart practically beating out of his chest, headed.

“Just curious,” said Ron softly. “But why is the house so clean if no one’s lived in it for sixteen years?”

“There must be a house-elf,” said Hermione. “They aren’t just bound to people; they’re bound to the house as well.”

“Well, they’re doing a better job than Kreacher did to Grimmauld Place.”

Harry heard none of this. His eyes had just caught a painting of his mother and him as a baby on the top of the stairs. He stopped in front of it and watched Lily gazing lovingly down at his baby form. She looked up at him suddenly, as he watched her with his sad eyes; her own sparkling green ones matching his. 

“Hello dears,” she said quietly to them. “Shh … he’s sleeping. Isn’t he perfect?”

Harry looked away quickly and continued walking down the hall. His throat felt like it was being stitched up. Hermione came up beside him and took his hand. 

“It’s okay,” said Hermione. “You’re allowed to be sad.”

“I k-know,” Harry choked and cleared his throat. “But not now, alright?”

Hermione nodded her head and let his hand go. He opened the door on his right. He took one look at the toys on the floor, the great big cradle in the centre of the room and the white curtains covered with moving broomsticks and quickly shut the door again. He cleared his throat and moved on to the next room, Ron and Hermione dutifully following him in silence. This one had a massive four poster bed and burgundy sheets. There was a wedding photo on the dressing table. This door was quickly closed too.

Harry turned to move on to the next door when a high-pitched squeak caught his attention. Before he had time to react, a small, rubbery-looking creature with a red, polka dot dress flung their arms around Harry’s knees.

“I guess the house-elf theory was a good one,” said Ron quietly behind Harry.

“Oh my Mar’ster! Ruby knew you vould return,” a weak French accent drifted up from the tiny she-elf. “Is Mistress with you?” The elf stepped away from Harry to look up at him with tears shining in her eyes. “Ruby ‘as kept lit’tel mar’ster’s room spotless! Jus’ like Mistress said!”

“Oh dear,” said Hermione, and the house-elf turned to her. “She thinks you’re James, Harry.”

The house-elf turned back to Harry, her big, brown, doe eyes wide in shock. “Lit’tel Mar’ster?” 

The elf fainted with a soft thud on the red carpet.

**(())**

Draco gulped nervously and stared at the clear substance. Draco didn’t like this at all. He had trouble being honest at the best of times. His eyes strayed back to the painting of his Clydesdale and he clenched his hands into the leather sofa.

“Don’t be scared Draco,” Bellatrix Lestrange ladled a teaspoon of Veritaserum into Draco’s Firewhiskey. “You need to know the best way to fight this off. And the only way to learn is to practice.”

“How exactly,” drawled Draco nastily, “am I meant to fight off a potion that makes you tell the truth?”

“I’m going to show you. Now drink up,” Bellatrix ordered. Draco scowled and raised his cup to his mouth cautiously. He swallowed it all in four big gulps.

“Good,” said Bellatrix as Draco’s eyes began to glaze over slightly. “Now, the first thing you need to know, Draco, is how to fight off the trance. Veritaserum has an element of gretiawood, which is used in sleeping potions. By adding this ingredient, the drinker is put in an entranced state and is unable to think clearly. So the first thing you need to do is fight the gretiawood, which luckily, is very easy.”

Draco’s stormy eyes remained emotionless. Bellatrix smiled unpleasantly. 

“Listen carefully now Draco, I need you to focus on something you care about very much. Money, a girl, or those wonderful silk robes Aunty Bella brought you … just pick something.”

Draco’s mind felt foggy and light. But he heard his Aunt Bella’s words and immediately his mother’s face sprang up in his mind. 

“What have you chosen, Draco?” asked Bellatrix.

“My mother,” Draco said without hesitation. Bellatrix made a face.

“Very well, you have to concentrate on her. Think about the things you’ve done together.”

Draco thought about his mother, the way she wrinkled her nose, her little half-smile, her blue eyes, her fingers running over a piano, her crying softly in his hair the day before he left for Hogwarts … as he went through different incidents, his mind began to clear and the glazed look in his eyes slowly left.

Bellatrix smiled. “Good boy. You’re still compelled to tell the truth, but you can think freely now. What you must do Draco, to fight Veritaserum, is find holes in people’s questions. Do you understand?”

Draco was silent for a moment as he tried to deny her an answer. “No,” he spoke at last.

Bellatrix laughed. “A born fighter, aren’t you? But like I said, you are still compelled to tell the truth. But now you can think about your answers. For example, Draco, where is your father?”

“Azkaban,” he glowered.

“Indeed he is, but you do not have to tell me so. For it is true that he is in Azkaban, but do you know _where_ Azkaban is?”

“No,” said Draco.

“No, you do not. So your answer could have been, “I don’t know”, because you do not actually _know where_ your father is, do you?”

He looked up at his aunt with a small smile. “No, I don’t.”

She smiled again. “So Draco, where is your father?”

“I don’t know,” he said triumphantly.

“Very good. Do you understand what I mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Good, let’s have another go. The question dreaded by many teenagers, and one I promise I don’t really want to know but nevertheless; have you ever slept with anyone?”

Draco thought for a moment. He had never had sex with anyone before but he had slept in the same bed as his mother and father, and had shared a bed with both Pansy and Blaise.

“Yes,” answered Draco victoriously.

Bellatrix cocked her head to the side. “And now to find out of you lied, have you ever had sex with anyone or anything?”

“ _Anything_?” Draco scowled. “No.”

“Anyone?” 

“No.”

She smirked. “Good boy, you’re getting the hang of it. Now there will be some questions where a loophole will be impossible, like the one I just asked you. But should you ever find yourself under questioning, if you are able to lie half the time, you should be able to confuse the questioner sufficiently enough that they believe _nothing_ you have said. They won’t be able to decipher the truth from the half-truths. That’s why the Ministry doesn’t use Veritaserum in trials.

“Now, a question that your insufferable mother refused to let me ask you.” Bellatrix leant forward with a slightly mad gleam in her eye. “What was it like seeing Dumbledore being killed?”

Draco swallowed loudly. Words instantly tried to escape his mouth, none of which would sound good. Words like ‘horrific’ and ‘distressing’. Things that Draco didn’t realise he had felt. At last, when Draco had been about to spit out ‘cataclysmic’, a suitable word came. “Different.”

Bellatrix stared at him curiously. “I’ll bet it was,” she said uncertainly, scrutinizing him. He returned her scrutiny with an arrogant smirk and she seemed satisfied for the moment. “I _do_ wish I had been there. Never mind, I shall be present for Potter’s ruin and that’ll be worth it.”

Draco said nothing. He hated Potter, that he was certain of. But he was not sure if he wanted him to die. Not anymore.

“Alright then, do you have a girlfriend?”

Draco thought for a moment, he was involved with someone, but Blaise was not a girl. “No, I do not have a girlfriend.”

Bellatrix smiled. “Now I know you must be lying. You have a little love bite on your neck. Tell me how you lied?”

Draco gulped, his eyes wide. “I did not lie.”

“Then did you give it to yourself? To look impressive?” Bellatrix laughed nastily. 

“I did not give it to myself,” snapped Draco crossly.

Bellatrix stopped laughing at once and looked down at Draco with narrowed eyes and a nasty smirk. “Who gave you that love bite on your neck?”

Draco tried to find a loophole, but there was none. “Blaise Zabini.”

Bellatrix was shocked. Draco could tell by the widening of those heavy lidded eyes and the thinning of her lips. She did not however, shout or clamp her hands over her mouth, for which Draco was grateful. She paced back and forth for a moment whilst Draco tried to appear like this information was no more important than a chocolate pudding recipe. She suddenly raised her hands to her hips and whispered dangerously, “What gender would you prefer for an intimate, sexual relationship, Draco, males or females?”

Again, Draco tried to find the loophole, but again, there was none. He sighed. “Males.”

Bellatrix looked down at Draco disgustedly. “If you were not my nephew, my sister’s child; if you did not have the most precious blood in the wizarding world, that of the pure-blooded Black’s and Malfoy’s. If you were not in the favor of the Dark Lord – _I would kill you now._ ” 

Draco looked away from his aunt and she stooped over him, her eyes full of questioning malice. “That night at Hogwarts, when Severus killed Dumbledore, why could you not do it?”

Draco looked back at his painting of the beautiful Clydesdale. “Because I am no killer.”

**(())**

Narcissa looked through the dining room doors, wondering how her son was faring with her sister.

“You should not be concerned, Narcissa. Draco is a fast learner.” Snape sipped his tea at the table carefully.

“I know that,” snapped Narcissa. “But what if he says-” Narcissa closed her mouth and gripped her tea cup.

“What if he says something … unfavorable?” 

Narcissa nodded her head gently. 

“Well then I should think it good that the Dark Lord chose Draco’s aunt for this particular training exercise,” said Snape.

Narcissa stifled a snort. “Hardly. She prefers him to many, but not enough to save him should he …”

Snape nodded his head and said quietly, “I will make sure I am present when she reports back to the Dark Lord.”

Narcissa sighed in relief. “Thank you, Severus.”

“Are you that concerned about him?”

Narcissa scowled. “There is a reason he could not kill Dumbledore, beyond first time jitters. I know it. I fear what that old fool may have said to him. He is different, surely you see it?”

“I do see it. But Draco was never influenced by Dumbledore before that night,” Snape shook his head in disagreement. “I doubt he would be then. I think it was just fear … weakness … which can only be expected in a sixteen-year-old.”

“My son is not weak,” Narcissa whispered dangerously as something snapped inside of her. “And do not think,” her voice rose, “that I am so foolish as to not see how pleased you were at the opportunity to kill the old man – even after all the work Draco had done! Off you went immediately to the Dark Lord, boasting your success and gaining even more favor whilst Draco was punished. While _I_ was punished!”

“You forced me to make that Unbreakable Vow,” said Snape calmly. “If I had not done it I would have died. And I did not wish punishment on you or Draco.”

Narcissa rose from the table. “I think you should leave.” She turned on her heel and stormed out leaving Snape sitting in the dining room alone.

**(())**

Harry stood in the study and breathed deeply. At the offering from the little house-elf - whose name was Ruby - of food, Ron had instantly ran to the kitchen and Hermione had trailed behind to keep him out of trouble. So Harry searched the little study alone, and what he was looking for, he wasn’t entirely sure. 

There were shelves of books on the walls, and a large Blackwood desk stood in the middle. Harry was standing behind the desk with his hands on a big wooden box. It was a plain box but for the imprint on the lid. An imprint of someone’s hand. Harry slipped his own hand into the imprint cautiously. Nothing happened so Harry tried turning his hand and as he did, a wooden head pushed Harry’s hand out of the imprint, and wiggled its way up. He looked down at it fearfully. A pointy little wooden nose and sharp wooden eyes stared up at him impertinently. 

“Password! Five guesses!” it barked.

Harry stared in shock. _Password?_ “I … I dunno?”

“Wrong! Four guesses!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t a guess,” he said angrily. “I was just saying I don’t know!”

“Wrong! Three guesses!”

“This is bull- oh, oops!” Harry finally found the sense to slap his hand over his mouth.

“Wrong! Two guesses!”

Harry racked his brain. _This must be my dad’s,_ Harry thought. _But what would his password be?_ Harry wanted to ask the wooden face what would happen if he didn’t get the password, but he didn’t want to waste another guess. He took a stab in the dark.

“Quidditch?”

“Wrong! Last guess!”

Harry looked around him for the answer. Could it be him? Or maybe it was his mother, Lily? Harry opened his mouth to say “Lily” when it hit him.

“Prongs!” he said.

“Correct!” The wooden head shrunk back and was replaced by the original and lifeless hand imprint. Harry smiled to himself as the box flipped open. He looked inside, cautiously. There were only two things in there, a large notebook and a map. Harry pulled out the notebook carefully and opened at a random page. It looked like a journal entry.

_Bloody Sirius. He was late to dinner and then went bounding into the nursery waking up Harry and chucking him up in the air and feeding him Chocolate Frogs and then had the hide to call me “An old, boring, over-protective Hufflepuff fluffer with a Quidditch pole stuck up his karker,” just because I hexed him to the shit and refused to let him hold Harry for the rest of the night. Well. He can get over it. Harry’s MY son and I don’t have to “learn to share,” nor do I have any more maturing to do._

Harry smiled and a sweet bitterness flowed through him as he thought of his dad and godfather wrangling over him. He turned a few more pages and stopped to read another entry. It was hard to understand as it had obviously been written in haste. Harry could only make out a few lines. 

_He wants … Dumbledore kept saying … away from my son … I need to see Regulus; we need to get this done … I think I found another horcrux, in the caves on the Cornish coast. God, I hope I’m right._

Harry took in a deep breath. _My dad was hunting horcruxes with Regulus Black? This answers a few questions_ , thought Harry, dryly. Like why Regulus had been murdered for one. Harry hurried to the door way and yelled down the corridor for Ron and Hermione. They came sprinting up the stairs and down the hall towards him. “What is it Harry?” Hermione asked with her wand out, looking around them as if expecting Death Eaters to pop out from behind a tapestry. 

“Read this,” said Harry, thrusting the journal towards her. She took it and read quickly. “Oh my gosh! Your Dad was looking for the horcruxes!”

“I know,” said Harry gravely at the same time as Ron said, “Gimme a look.”

Ron snatched the journal up and looked into it. “With Regulus … as in Sirius’s brother?”

“Must be,” said Harry. “Voldemort must’ve found out about it.”

“Huh?” said Hermione. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s why he killed my Dad. Dumbledore told me that he was going to let my mother live if she gave me up, but that he’d never have let my Dad live. This must be why. And this must be why Sirius’s brother was killed,” said Harry.

Ron laughed and Harry frowned at him.

“Oh no,” said Ron looking apologetic. “I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s your Dad, he’s really funny! Listen to this; _Fiona tried to tell me that her nephew was cuter than Harry so I stuck her to the ceiling and refused to let her down until she admitted she was full of shit. She’s tough for a teenager, stayed up there well past midnight singing that muggle Elton John’s songs until Nick Polanski came ‘round and told us to stop the noise or put a silencing charm around the house. I chucked him up there too._ ” Ron laughed out loud and then, seeing the look on Harry’s face, quickly stopped. “Oh, sorry Harry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Harry, turning back to the desk. He pulled out the map from the wooden box and laid it out. 

“What’s this?” asked Hermione, coming around to have a look. It was a map of Great Britain and there were six little red dots, one of which was on the rocky coast of Cornwall.

“The Cave …” Harry whispered, pointing to it.

Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. “You mean, where you and Dumbledore …?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I think so. He never actually told me where we were.”

“These are locations of the horcruxes, aren’t they?” said Hermione quietly. “Or at least where your Dad thought they were.”

“Hey!” said Ron suddenly pointing to a dot just outside of Brighton. “That’s where Malfoy Manor is!”

“Riddle’s diary,” said Harry indifferently, studying a dot in Swansea, Wales. 

“Huh?” said Ron.

“Lucius Malfoy had Riddle’s diary,” explained Harry. “It’s already been destroyed. And don’t forget, Dumbledore destroyed the ring. The ring is in my trunk but I gave the diary back to Lucius. So there are four more to find.”

“Are you sure that’s the diary? Do you think Voldemort gave Malfoy the diary before he was destroyed?”

“I guess,” said Harry. “I reckon he would have hidden all the horcruxes by then. Besides, what other explanation is there for this dot? And Voldemort wouldn’t favor Lucius in that way; by giving him more than one. This dot _must_ represent the diary.”

“And where was the ring found?” Ron asked. 

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” said Ron, crossing his arms. “I must say, it’s bloody lucky your father was as pro-active as you are, Harry. Where shall we start?”

Harry looked at them carefully. “Do you think it’s odd that we had no _real_ plan and now everything seems to be conveniently falling into place? Or am I being paranoid?”

Ron smiled cheekily. “Little of column A, little of column B … lets go hunting.” 

**(())**

Draco stood in the lavish study and breathed deeply, searching for the scent of his father, but it was not there anymore. It hadn’t been for a few months now. He sat in his father’s chair, his hands on the arm rests, and closed his eyes, keeping his mind clear just like his aunt had taught him. Though his reasons for blocking his sub-conscious now, were not the reasons why he had been taught Occlumency. 

Draco had found Occlumency quite easy, really. He did not know why. He had supposed, at the time, that it was because he was particularly intelligent and talented. But Theodore Knott snorted at him when he’d shared this view one time at the Slytherin table. “It’s got nothing to do with that. Some of the most talented wizards can’t do Occlumency to save their own lives – literally. It’s about your own disposition.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” drawled Draco, annoyed at being censured. 

“What kind of person you are, I mean. How good you are at suppressing emotions,” said Theodore patiently. “For example, look at Potter. I’ve never seen anyone pull a shield up that strong and that quickly before,” he said, referring to their first Defense Against the Dark Arts class with Snape. “But he’d be a shit-house Occlumens. Wears his emotions on his sleeve. Or rather, in his eyes.”

“Well I had no idea, Theo,” drawled Draco, “that you observed Potter so much.”

Theodore snorted again. “Not nearly as much as _he_ observes _us_.”

“What are you talking about?”

Theodore rolled his eyes and looked away muttering, “I might as well be talking to Vincent.”

Draco sighed loudly and it echoed through the study. He had been thinking about Theodore a lot lately. Or rather, thinking about the things he’d said throughout the year. Draco wondered when and how Theodore became so … astute. Or maybe Draco had just never noticed before? He had seen Theodore as a rival for the position of group leader at first, but Theodore had shown absolutely no desire to play that game with Draco, and so they had developed a friendship. One of respect at being two of the least stupid in their house. But they had drifted apart in sixth year. Draco had had other things on his mind, and evidently, so had Theodore. 

Draco sat up and opened his eyes. Lucius had never allowed Draco into the study unless he had been there with him. This embargo, naturally, had awoken a curiosity in Draco that would not have been had Lucius kept quiet. But Lucius lacked the self control Narcissa did. The self control she had passed on to her son. The self control that had kept Draco from snooping about in here previously, lest he got caught and had to face the rather formidable wrath of his father. But that was not likely now, so opened up one of the drawers in his father’s desk and peeked inside. There was nothing in there but a few ink pots and a blotchy looking note book. Draco pulled out the notebook curiously. It was covered in dry ink and there was an odd sort of hole right through the middle. Like someone had stabbed it with a blunt knife. He opened the pages. Each one was completely blue with ink.

“Your father always was a sentimentalist.” Draco’s head snapped up and he dropped the book in shock. The hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stood up. His heart stopped. It was still summer but very suddenly the room seemed like a giant refrigerator. Draco stood quickly and bowed low and clumsily. “My lord.”

The Dark Lord, in grey robes and foul features, smiled maliciously down at Draco. He looked away from his servant, but his very presence was enough to make Draco feel indescribably ill. 

“Rise,” said the Dark Lord.

Draco stood straight, and did not meet his master's eyes. An unannounced visit by the Dark Lord was not a good thing. The only time he ever held a private audience was to punish or reward. Draco did not want either. He immediately cleared his mind from his master, and hoped he would not have an inkling to probe.

“How have you been, my child?”

Draco could not hide his astonishment at being asked such a thing by such a man - if it were even possible to call this abomination of evil and destruction a “man”. The Dark Lord looked down at him with an unreadable expression, waiting for a response. “I am fine, my lord.” Draco was pleased that his voice had not shaken.

The Dark Lord looked to the floor where Draco had dropped the inky notebook. “It was mine, a long time ago,” he said, referring to the notebook.

“Yes, my lord.” Draco looked around the study, attempting to avoid the Dark Lord’s eyes.

“You are restless, no doubt. But you need not fret at your current idleness; Lord Voldemort has a new plan.”

“He does? I mean you do, my lord?” Draco repressed a shudder, he had been the key player in his master’s last plan, and he did not desire involvement in any more. 

“Yes, I do. I trust I will have your complete assistance?” His words were a question but his tone was a threat. Draco did not know how to answer and settled for a nod of the head. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good,” he said, not without malevolence. He took a step towards Draco his eyes glittering red and Draco swallowed loudly. “I saw your Aunt Bellatrix today, Draco.” The Dark Lord spoke pithily and almost nonchalantly. But he looked at Draco significantly, as if waiting for a response to this. Draco did not answer, but held his breath. “She had the _most_ interesting news.” Now he sounded venomous and Draco paled. He looked away from his master with disdain, a habit used most foolishly at this time.

_“Crucio!”_ The Dark Lord spat harshly and Draco fell to floor screaming bloody murder, his bones twisting inside his body, bending him into odd shapes like he was clay. After a moment, he pulled the curse off. Draco choked on his breaths and rolled onto his side away from his master. 

“There is something wrong here, young Draco.” Draco could sense the Dark Lord pacing menacingly behind him. “You were going to be my _star_ Draco. The next generation. The _better_ , unconditionally loyal generation. _Crucio!”_ Draco let out a devastating howl of pain and he cursed himself for not be able to hold his cries back. The pain was too great. 

The Dark Lord kept the curse on Draco for several minutes, watching him twist and howl in pain with a smile on his face. He did not take the curse off until Draco’s voice broke, and he could scream no more. Draco lay twitching on the floor, his head lopped to the side. He saw a pair of black heels at the door way and his eyes looked up to his mother. She looked horrified, with her hands over her mouth. But she stood there, stock still, doing nothing. Something inside Draco hardened then and he moved his gaze away from her, unable to move anything else. A trickle of blood crept out of the corner of his mouth and slid down his porcelain, white cheek and the Dark Lord gazed at it almost fondly.

“You are forgiven, Draco,” he said crisply. “Once again, my child, you are forgiven. Mr. Zabini has been removed from the manor, and you will partake in the coming mission. Avery will keep an eye on you, and shall report to you soon. In the meantime, I suggest you consider very carefully what sort of role you want when we are victorious. You are losing my favor.” With that, he slithered out of the study without another word.

After a few moments, when it appeared the Dark Lord had flooed out of the manor with two Dementors in his wake, Narcissa bustled towards her son who was beginning to regain feeling in his bones, but remained twitchy and shaken. ‘Draco! It’s alright I’m here-” Draco kicked her away violently and she let out a squeal of pain and clutched her right knee. “Draco, what’s wro…” Narcissa faded at the inanity of her query and Draco began to slowly pull himself off the floor. He stood shakily and Narcissa looked on worriedly. “Severus was meant to protect you … I’ll kill him for this. Please Draco, let me help you. How do you feel?”

He looked at her with only coldness in his grey eyes. “I feel clarity, mother.”

… to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** “Domus Custos” means - in my rather maladroit Latin - literally, “House Keeper”. And thank you to my Beta’s; **Kristin** the creative wit, and **Nicki** the grammatical genius.

**raining_slash**


	3. The Cup of Hufflepuff

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.” – Napoleon Bonaparte_

Chapter Three: The Cup of Hufflepuff

Spinner’s End was a small neighbourhood. It was filled with diminutive, low maintenance homes that lacked in both class and classy owners. The dirty bricked houses sported leaks, cracks and rats. Their owners were traditionally, not much better than their fellow rodent inhabitants. The houses were formerly owned by the government, and the government used to place ex-convicts and the scummiest of the scummiest unemployed into this neighborhood. As a result, even years after the government stopped this exercise, a stigma had developed and it would not be shaken. 

For these reasons, many thought Severus Snape mad for purchasing his home in such a muggle neighborhood. Aside from the obvious reasons of hygiene; why should this man, who believes in pure-bloods and the desecration of all things un-magical, want to live in the heart of the enemy’s strong hold? It made sense to no one but the man himself.

“I don’t understand it at all,” said a whimpering Peter Pettigrew – or simply ‘Wormtail’ - who was fidgeting in Snape’s front room, trying to find a comfortable position on the uncomfortable couch. “Why can we not move closer to the Dark Lord? Surely we would be safer?”

Snape rolled his eyes and drawled unpleasantly, “I beg you _not_ to try and understand the reasoning of an intellect, Wormtail. You’ll only give yourself a headache.” 

Wormtail frowned and wished he could retort, but he knew better. Snape was the Dark Lord’s favourite, not to mention, much more powerful than he was. But even though there was a mutual detestation for each other; Wormtail would prefer to talk to the man than sit there bored, doing nothing but trying to block out the sounds of the muggle drug hoarders next door. Or worse than nothing, be locked up in the basement – as Snape had taken to doing to him when the Dark Lord or important Death Eaters visited. 

Wormtail had given up his resentment for not being more in the Dark Lord’s favor. In fact, over time, he had found that he did not envy Snape or the young Malfoy or Avery their positions very much at all. More responsibility meant he would have more control over others, that was true. And he would also be looked upon in a better light by his master. But when missions failed, all blame was placed on the leaders and they took on all punishments. Failures tended to come thick and fast for Wormtail. So only on occasions such as this, when it became clear to even his simple mind that he was not serving just the Dark Lord, but his fellow minions as well, did strands of jealousy seep into his mind. 

Wormtail fiddled with his robe collar and looked away from his reluctant companion, wondering how he had ended up in muggle dump like this, with the wallpaper wilting away and every floor board creaking in umbrage at having to remain solid for its occupants. Snape seemed to neither notice nor care for his roommate’s restlessness and remained immersed in a Potions book written entirely in Latin. Wormtail did not know Latin. James, Sirius and Remus had though – the latter being particularly good. This thought reminded Wormtail of a certain ploy he had been using of late, to attract Snape’s attention. It often resulted in him being locked up in the basement, but at least it provided him with some form of entertainment, if only for a few minutes.

“Jam- Potter was meant to teach me Latin. Never got around to it – thought teaching me to fly was more important,” Wormtail said, attempting to sound nonchalant and remove the smirk from his voice. 

Snape looked up at Wormtail irritably. “I would ask you not to talk about James Potter in my presence. _Ever_.”

“Why not?” Wormtail asked, feigning a sulk and keeping his eyes on the dusty, wooden floor.

Snape rolled his eyes again and gave Wormtail a look of deepest disdain, and bit of disbelief at someone being so stupid. “Because he’s dead, and I like it that way. I don’t want to think about him … _living_.”

Wormtail was about to question Snape further when there was a tetchy knock at the door. “Get the door, Wormtail,” Snape said quickly, cutting off any further conversation. Wormtail got to his feet crossly and went to the door, his fun now over. On his way, he threw a chunk of wood onto the fire. Snape liked a cold house - a Slytherin cliché not missed on even Wormtail who regularly attempted to berate him for it. 

“Who is it?” Wormtail asked at the door. 

“It’s Bellatrix, you insufferable rodent, let me in before the muggles see!” Bellatrix’s incensed voice bit through the air. Wormtail looked over his shoulder at Snape for permission to open the door – Bellatrix Lestrange was not one of Snape’s preferred people – and Snape nodded his head in confirmation.

Bellatrix barged in, clearly in a bad mood, and looked around the front room with her usual sneer. She did not meet Snape’s eyes though. Wormtail sidled next to the bookcase, where he tended to be forgotten, and therefore, discovered more news of his lord. Wormtail was not invited to inner circle meetings anymore, he hadn’t been for almost a year, and Snape never divulged any information. 

“Well Severus, are you going to offer me a beverage?” she asked, her hands on hips.

“No, that would invite you to stay longer than I wish you to,” Snape said coolly. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes.

“Very well, I’ll get straight to it. I need information-”

Snape raised his hand impatiently for her to stop. “I will tell you nothing of the next mission, and will only discuss with you that which you already know. So don’t bother.” Bellatrix gave Snape a look that would send any other man quivering, but Snape had never been intimidated by Bellatrix. Even though, he perhaps, should have been. She could do a lot of damage when her mind and twisted heart were truly in it. 

“Do you not trust me, Snape? I think that quite ridiculous. I merely wish to be prepared.”

Snape sneered nastily at her. “You are here because you wish to pick a fight with me out of anger and frustration at the Dark Lord. You have no one but yourself to blame for losing his favor, and I have far too much to do tonight to waste time bickering with you. Now, if you could kindly leave…”

Bellatrix paced back and forth angrily, Wormtail could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. “I deserve to know! I have done everything he has asked of me, _and more!_ I even told him of Draco! I betrayed my nephew’s confidence for him and I still get nothing!”

Snape had sat through the outburst aloofly, but at the mention of Draco, he snapped his head up. “What about Draco?”

“Has Narcissa not called on you?” Bellatrix snorted and said viciously, “I thought she’d go whining to you straight away.”

“Please explain,” Snape asked, appearing indifferent. “I cannot afford another interruption tonight.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and smirked. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Snape’s lip curled. “Fine,” he muttered.

Bellatrix began talking quickly and animatedly and Wormtail thought it amusing that even _she_ could not help but gossip – an unfortunate flaw of most women. “When I was teaching Draco to fight Veritaserum, he let out a couple of things he perhaps shouldn’t of. Though, I suppose he could not help it,” she said, not appearing the least bit concerned for her nephew, despite her earlier sentiments of breaking his confidence. “So I decided to report to the Dark Lord right away instead of waiting ‘til tomorrow night. Did you now he was gay? Lucius will be _most_ embarrassed. But that wasn’t even the worst of it,” she said with that mad gleam in her eye leaning over the couch Wormtail had formerly been sitting on. “He said he didn’t want to kill Dumbledore! Pretty much admitted to not having it in him. The Dark Lord was very displeased.”

Snape stood up suddenly, looking as incensed as Bellatrix had on arrival. “You are a fool! Draco is barely hanging on as-” Snape quickly stopped himself. “Get out of my house,” he ordered coldly.

“Oh no you don’t, we made a deal,” said Bellatrix, her hands back on her hips. “And what do you mean about Draco?”

“Wormtail! Show her out!” Snape turned his back on her and Wormtail opened the door and attempted to bustle her out. She slapped him hard on the arm.

“Don’t touch me, you rat! You are not kicking me-” 

“Out!” Snape bellowed and Bellatrix was suddenly lifted off the ground and she flew out the room, the door slamming loudly and powerfully in her wake, causing the dust on the roof to shake itself off on to their heads. 

Snape slumped back down to his chair, and after a moment, continued with his book. He appeared just as before, but for the obvious crease of anger in his brow. Wormtail raised his eyebrows and looked out the front room window. He could make out the small figure of Bellatrix shaking twigs off her robes and swearing loudly. 

He looked at his companion in amazement. Snape rarely showed that much emotion. Wormtail headed silently for the basement. The dark cold would be better than being the object of Snape’s anger release. 

Snape’s hand shook as he turned the pages of his book.

**(())**

“Wow,” said Hermione her mouth hanging open slightly. “I’ve _always_ wanted to come here. I can’t believe it, it’s magnificent.”

Ron and Harry came up either side of her. “I don’t see what’s so special about it,” said Ron. “Looks like a regular castle to me.”

Hermione looked extremely put out and she looked up at the great castle in front of her with disbelief. They were standing out the front of the east wing, gazing at the rather intimidating grey stone, in search of an entrance. The Welsh night sky was full of stars and the quarter moon glowed almost seductively down at them. Hermione wished that they could have come here under different circumstances.

“A regular castle? A _regular castle_?” Hermione exclaimed. “This is the _Lledrithio Caer_! This was the home of the ancient Welsh sorceress, Aaecien! She killed _thousands_ in these walls; no wonder Voldemort chose it to hide part of his soul.”

Ron shivered at hearing the name but otherwise ignored it. “Well she’s dead and this castle is a muggle museum now, so shall we not live in the past?” Ron stated, moving towards a glassless window. Hermione scowled and put her hand on her hips as Harry tried hard to stifle his snickers. Hermione did not like arguing with Ron. It was almost the very opposite of things she wanted to do with him, but somehow, they just couldn’t help themselves. An old habit is hard to break.

“Fine,” she said crossly, following him. 

They scrambled rather awkwardly through the window and landed in what appeared to be a kitchen of sorts. There was a red rope separating the old fire place, the pots and the stone benches, so that the muggle tourists would not damage the ancient items. The kitchen had an odd smell of lead and freshly cut grass, reminding Hermione of a cave she had once visited with her parents in France. 

“Well where should we start?” Ron asked, as they all silently moved onto the other side of the rope.

“Hmm …” Hermione thought for a moment. “We don’t know exactly what we’re looking for – only that a horcrux might be here.”

“It’ll be something rich, old, ornamental,” said Harry quietly, lighting his wand. 

Hermione peered at his face, now illuminated. He appeared so much older than he had six months ago. And his eyes … they sported the look of someone who had seen too much. They looked tortured. Hermione sighed to herself and said, “Well if the Horcrux is something ornamental, it won’t be in the kitchen. This is a big castle, we better get moving before daylight, otherwise we’ll run into the muggle tourists.”

“Yeah, plus the Swansea Pub had a great lamb shanks soup, they stop serving after midnight,” stated Ron. Hermione bit her tongue and plunged forward, leading Ron and Harry into the hall.

They searched the dining room, the main hall, the drawing room, two bedrooms, and could find nothing that appeared to be harboring a soul. Hermione had picked up several objects, a vase, a music box and a crystal cat, but Harry took one look at all of them and shook his head. Hermione was getting frustrated and the castle was freezing. She had a horrible feeling being inside it, like she could feel all the death that this place had once invited.

They moved out of a third bedroom, still unsuccessful, and made for the third floor gallery. The gallery was as large as the great hall in Hogwarts, and was lighted magnificently by the moon that seeped in through the leadlight windows. 

“This place is great,” said Hermione in awe. She followed the red rope which led to a small plaque that the muggles had written on, describing each room. This one said:

_The Great Gallery  
This room is perhaps the most mysterious of all Lledrithio Caer’s rooms. The paintings that fill every space on the walls are very grand, but even the greatest experts are unable to name even one of the artists. It is as if they come from another world. Many that venture to the Swansea countryside to view these works swear they feel the paintings watching them almost as intently as they watch the paintings._

“Silly muggles,” said Ron, almost affectionately behind Hermione’s shoulder. She turned to face him and looked him fixedly in the eye. He was very close and stared back, giving her a little smile. She felt herself going red, but was unable to look away. She was about to say something when Harry’s voice snapped them out of it.

“Hey! Look at this bloke!”

Hermione looked away from Ron and quickly walked over to Harry, rather flustered. Ron walked slowly behind her.

“Who does this remind you of?” Harry asked, pointing at a portrait.

Hermione stared up at the still painting. A man with haughty expression stared back at her. He had long, straight, white blonde hair and cold grey eyes. He would have been quite handsome had he not appeared so harsh. 

“It’s a bloody Malfoy!” exclaimed Ron, disgustedly. 

At the mention of the name, “Malfoy”, Hermione was positive she saw the paintings eyes flicker for a moment. “Did you see that?” Her heart began to race.

“Yes,” said Harry keenly, he reached up to grab the frame. He tugged forcefully from every corner, until the frame flipped open like a door. Hermione gasped and Ron swore. There, sitting on a shelf was a goblet. A goblet, that judging by the look on Harry’s face, he had seen before. 

“This is it,” he said, quietly. “It’s the Cup of Hufflepuff.”

They stood there gazing at it for a full minute, as if scared it would suddenly grow fangs and leap out at them. Hermione looked to Harry. “Why don’t you take it?”

“Because I don’t think it would be that easy. There’s _got_ to be a curse on it.” 

“Maybe not,” said Ron. “I mean, there’s nothing magical really left in this place anymore. Maybe, you know, that was the whole idea. I mean, who would think of looking in a muggle museum for something of You-Know-Who’s, no matter what it used to be.”

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out,” said Harry. He stepped forward and tentatively put his hand forward. He softly grazed the top of the cup with his fingertips. Nothing happened and Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. Harry took it cleanly off the hidden stone shelf and pushed the painting back. 

Hermione watched Harry study the cup uneasily. She still had that feeling of trepidation. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get out of here.”

Harry nodded his head and carefully slid the cup into a woolen pouch. They quickly headed back down the floors and out through the kitchen window they’d come in. In their haste, they did not notice that the man in the painting, formerly guarding the horcrux, had disappeared. 

**(())**

_MISSING IN ACTION?_

_The Wizarding World’s hero has disappeared. Harry Potter and two of his friends went missing on Sunday morning. Potter was reported to have been staying with the Weasley family, who were not available for comment. Aurors are out in full force in search of the Boy Who Lived, and they are expecting to find him within a week.  
Some are suggesting the Chosen One has left to destroy He Who Must Not Be Named, whilst others claim he has given up and gone into hiding. Story continued page. 2._

Draco raised his eyebrows at the _Daily Prophet_ in his hands. He smiled at the idea of Potter “giving up”. Five years of riling the Gryffindor up, meant he knew more about his character than many, and Potter wouldn’t give up. Not while there was still a Mudblood to save.

He looked down at the picture accompanying the article. The caption said it had been taken the day before they had gone missing, at a wedding. Draco thought the Mudblood bore a striking resemblance to Madam Pince with her hair pinned back like that; although, she did look better than the Weasel who wore his usual expression of confusion. But Potter had quite a nice set of robes on, his eyes were cast down to the ground sheepishly, making him look quite delic-

Draco quickly threw the paper away and shook his head. He was _not even_ going to go there. He hated Potter; he knew that to be true. And you should never be attracted to someone you hate. It goes against all the rules of reason. But then, if he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit there had been times in sixth year where he would stare absent-mindedly at Potter, wishing he weren’t a Gryffindor and an idiot and the Dark Lord’s nemesis. It was, in his opinion, a waste of man.

Draco’s thoughts were disturbed by the sounds of someone calling out in the hall. He furrowed his brow and exited the drawing room; no one was in the house but his mother and the house elves. The person calling out sounded like neither. It was unlikely to be a visitor – it was almost 3AM. 

He entered the hall, but there was no one there. “Here, here! I say young man, over here!” Draco let out a little shout as he looked up at a painting that he had always thought was empty. It was now filled with a man who was unmistakably a Malfoy. 

“Are you listening, young Malfoy?” he looked flustered, like he had just ran ten miles and had another ten to go.

“Um … yes.” 

“You must let the Dark Lord know that the cup has been taken. Three youths have just departed with it. You must let him know, I must return before the muggles notice. Tell him, do you understand? It is awfully important.” He sounded extremely concerned about it so Draco nodded his head. “Yes, of course, I’ll let him know.”

“Good, good.” With that the man left, saying nothing more. 

Draco walked back to the drawing room confused. _A cup? The Dark Lord was hiding a cup?_ Draco sat down on the sofa, trying to decipher the message and the man, both of which where coming and going in his mind very quickly. As he was going over it in his head, the _Daily Prophet_ picture of Potter caught his eye from the carpet where he’d cast it aside. His eyes bulged in comprehension. _Three youths…_

“What are you up to, Potter?”

**(())**

Harry was in a dense forest. The trees stood thick and tall and rich, green shrubbery surrounded him. It should have been quite beautiful, but Harry felt very claustrophobic. He was not alone though. His friends flew above him in the canopy, beckoning him to join them in the air. His enemies skittered about on the ground. He wanted to get away from them and join his friends in the sky, but for some reason his wings were not working. He was too heavy for the air, too light for the earth. He felt like crying when he heard a voice behind him. 

“We do not belong with them.” It was Draco Malfoy. But then it couldn’t be? He looked different to what Harry remembered. Older, and yet more innocent.

“I want to be with my friends,” Harry found himself saying in a small voice, looking above.

“And I with mine,” said Malfoy, looking below. “But we don’t belong with them.”

“Help me reach them,” said Harry, ignoring Malfoy’s last comment and looking at him pleadingly. 

“You will not be happy there.”

“Please …” A tear fell down Harry’s face, he was afraid of being alone.

“Very well.” Malfoy moved to Harry and grabbed him firmly around the waist, looking him directly in the eye. Green met grey and suddenly Harry was in the air and he could see his friends … touch them. He looked down with a smile on his face to thank Malfoy, but the blonde boy was sobbing on the ground, all alone. Harry was not happy.

“Harry! _Harry!_ Come on! Will you get up, we need to get some breakfast.” Hermione’s crisp voice woke him from his dream. Harry opened his eyes and shook his head; he could still see Malfoy in his mind. He shook his head again.

“Are you right, mate?” Ron asked, rubbing his eyes as Hermione chose their muggle clothes for them and threw them on their beds. “Did you have another nightmare? Is it _him_?”

“Um …” Harry rubbed his forehead. “No, no, it wasn’t a nightmare. I’m alright.”

“Good,” said Hermione. “I’ve ordered us some breakfast. I’ll see if there are any parlors left, so get changed and be quick about it would you, I’ve got something to show you.”

Harry flopped out of bed inelegantly and pulled on the clothes Hermione had chosen for him. Jeans and a green hooded jumper. Ron yawned loudly. “I hate hotel rooms, the beds are always lumpy. Muggle or wizard.” Harry smiled and nodded his head, the image of a crying Malfoy still in the back of his mind. 

Harry picked up the pouch that held the horcrux from under the bed and slipped the drawstring around his wrist. He and Ron headed down to breakfast. They found Hermione, surrounded by bacon, eggs, toast and pancakes in a small parlor. Before Harry had even started filling his plate, Hermione chucked the _Daily Prophet_ in front of Harry. He read it with a furrowed brow. 

“Oh great,” said Ron miserably next to him. “We’re marked now. None of us are going to be able to go anywhere in the wizarding world. Bloody mum, did she think we’d ran away to go on a road trip or something?”

“She was probably just worried. Besides, she might not have said anything. The Ministry could’ve found out some other way,” said Hermione.

“I guess,” sighed Ron and he began piling his plate.

“There’s an interview with Scrigmeour too,” said Hermione with a scowl in her voice. “He thinks you’ve flaked and that people need to put their faith into the Ministry instead. He’s such a fuck.”

Ron choked on his eggs and Harry sprayed orange juice across the parlor. “Hermione!” they shouted in unison. Hermione went red, but looked strangely proud.

“Gesh,” laughed Ron. “Warn us next time you plan on swearing. It’s _that_ odd …”

Harry laughed and put the pouch on the table. Hermione stared at it apprehensively. “So what are we going to do with it?”

“I suppose we’ll have to get the soul out somehow.” Harry piled his plate with pancakes.

“How ar’ee do zat?” asked Ron, his mouth full of bacon.

“There are a few things we could do. We could use an altered Summoning Charm, or a Retracting Spell. I’m not sure what one we’ll be best. The best person to talk to would probably be your dad, Ron,” said Hermione. “He removes curses and stuff from objects all the time.”

“Well, we obviously can’t do that,” Harry pointed out.

“No, I suppose not,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Maybe we could go to the public library in Hogsmeade?”

“Can’t do that either,” said Harry. “We’re marked, remember?”

“We could go to Hogwarts,” suggested Ron, taking a break from eating. “We could sneak in using the Marauders Map. The students aren’t going to be there for a couple of weeks yet.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” said Harry. 

“Can you not say it like I _never_ get any good ideas?”

**(())**

Draco stood tall and proud. Avery to his left, Snape to his right. They stood upon the dais with his Aunt Bellatrix, Macnair and Nott senior. The rest of the Death Eaters stood amongst the crowd before them, looking at them with envy and fear. 

The cave of the Dark Lord was freezing, as always, but there was something else as well. The cave tended to reflect their Lord’s feelings, and if he was reading the walls correctly, the Dark Lord was furious. The black stone surrounded them menacingly and the fire sticks on the walls sparkled treacherously. 

This meeting was called to announce the next mission. There would be another meeting after that, for specifics – but Draco had a feeling they were not going to be discussing anything tonight, but listening to a rather formidable speech. 

There was quiet, idle chatter in the cave, but as the back door of the dais was opened, and the great snake, Nagini, slithered out, silence instantly prevailed. Draco need only take one look at his Lord to know he had read the cave correctly. He turned to the crowd and did not look back at the unearthly creature.

Draco had intended to inform the Dark Lord of the portrait’s message after the meeting, but now he feared speaking to him in this foul mood.

“My faithful followers, I am sure, that by now you are aware that Potter has gone missing.” His voice was low and dangerous. He was worse like this than in any other instance. Worse when there was no one specific to blame, but blame and accountability he was most certainly after.

Draco held his breath.

“No doubt, some of you assume that he has simply ran in fear. This may be true. But I am almost certain he is up to something.” Everyone in the room listened intently, hoping he did not attempt to release his anger on them. “Very soon, we will be venturing out for a little entertainment … by then, I want him found. Do I make myself, perfectly clear?”

There was a bow and a murmur of understanding in the crowd. The Dark Lord remained a moment, gazing over the daily growing crowd, and silence remained. The Dark Lord turned on his heel and walked to the door. Every man and woman dropped to their knees as he left. Once the door was closed people slowly began rising.

“This won’t be easy,” said Avery quietly next to him as Snape and Nott began clearing everyone out.

“What do you mean?” asked Draco. 

“Potter can hide himself a lot better on his own,” said the shrewd Avery, “than with the Ministry dancing about him.”

**(())**

Harry led Ron and Hermione down the long, dark passage from Honeydukes to the one-eyed witch in Hogwarts castle. It had been relatively easy to sneak into Honeydukes and hide in the back until the lolly shop closed. Harry and Ron had hid under the Invisibility Cloak and Hermione had transfigured her facial features so that she now had a much larger nose, blue eyes and blonde hair. It was a good thing that they had taken these precautions as missing posters of them lined the streets of Hogsmeade, along with the poster of known Death Eaters and other missing people. It was also a good thing that so few people left their homes nowadays. The emptiness of the village had made discretion easier.

Honeydukes had closed at six o’clock and the moment the doors were shut and the couple that owned the shop moved upstairs to their house, Harry had pulled the cloak off him and Ron, Hermione had transfigured her face back to normal and they snuck down the trap door. 

They had been feeling their way through the silent tunnel for an hour when Harry finally pulled the Marauders Map out from the back of his jeans. The three dots revealing them were now on the edge of the map. They were making their way slowly closer to the school and Harry had to make sure their path, once inside the castle, was completely clear. But it was hard to concentrate now that he was so close to the place. 

He both loved and hated Hogwarts now. So many wonderful things had happened there. He had made friends there, he had played Quidditch there, had his first kiss, learnt magic, found a place where he’d felt he truly belonged. But many terrible things had happened there as well. No matter how hard he tried focusing only on the good, the bad would surface anyway.

“How far are we, Harry?” Hermione asked, breathlessly behind him. 

“Any moment now … _Lumos_!” Harry held his wand aloft and could make out the shape of the back of the painting only metres away. 

“Thank Merlin,” said Ron. “My legs are cramping up.”

Harry pushed the painting forward and the small gap that they were to sneak out of flooded light into the tunnel. Harry looked at the map again to see if anyone was about. He searched the corridor they were to enter – nothing. He checked the Great Hall and the Library and the Headmaster’s Office – nothing. Only after a thorough scouring did Harry finally find life in the form of the caretaker, Mr. Filch. He was in the Astronomy Tower and didn’t appear to moving. They would have to watch out for the man’s cat, Mrs. Norris, though. 

“It’s alright, there’s no one here but Filch. Not even Hagrid. You go first Hermione.”

Hermione squeezed through the portrait and Ron followed rather awkwardly after, nearly pushing the frame off its hinges. Harry bit his bottom lip. He hadn’t been to Hogwarts through the one-eyed witch for a long time. He’d gotten bigger since then and if slim Hermione and lanky Ron struggled to get through, he wasn’t sure how he was meant too. He pulled of his jumper and passed it, the map, the pouch with the cup and the Invisibility Cloak through to Ron and Hermione. “Be careful Harry,” said the latter, “don’t break the frame.”

Harry pushed his leg through first and carefully started squeezing the first half of his body out. He sucked his breath in when he heard the frame screech painfully. “You’re almost there …” said Hermione and Harry slithered the rest of himself out, falling to the floor. “You need to lay off the spinach, mate.” Ron laughed at him.

“We cannot go back that way. We’ll have to go through the other one, under the Whomping Willow,” said Hermione, handing Harry his things as they headed off down the corridor.

“We can’t,” said Harry. “Dumbledore closed it off after everything with Pettigrew. He was meant to do the one-eyed witch too but I think he put spells up instead.”

“Well, why are we alright if he put spells up?” asked Ron.

“He wouldn’t do it against us,” said Harry. “He knew we used it. He probably predicted us needing it.”

“But I mean, you can’t be selective when warding!”

“Of course you can,” said Hermione. “If you’re Dumbledore, that is.”

“Fine, whatever,” said Ron, as they approached the library entrance. “How are we going to get out then?” 

“We can use one of the others – the ones Filch knows about. He doesn’t know we’re here so it should be fine,” said Harry, opening the library doors.

“Fair enough,” said Ron, shaking his head. “But why aren’t we setting off any alarms?”

“Because we’re students, as far as the castle is concerned,” said Hermione. “You’d know that if you’d read _Hogwarts, A History._ ”

“It’s not gonna happen, Hermione.”

Harry saw Hermione roll her eyes and head off for the section on Summoning Charms. She ordered Harry to keep look out as she and Ron took notes and tried to find the appropriate spell to use to remove the seventh of a soul from the horcrux. Two very boring hours later, when the only entertainment had been the Fat Friar floating past the library clearly lost in thought, Hermione shut the books and announced them done.

“I think I’ve got it,” she declared, as they headed for the first floor Charms classroom.

“You _think_?” said Harry.

“I’m _sure_.”

They walked in silence, all lost in their own thoughts. Harry found it so odd to be in the castle when it was so quiet and lacking life and vibrancy. He longed for the past comforts that Hogwarts had once brought him – reminding him he was young and alive. Quidditch matches, skipping class with Ron, copying off Hermione, telling dirty jokes with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, getting into trouble from Snape, sucking up to McGonagall so that she let him get away with not doing his work, fighting with Malfoy … 

_Malfoy_. At the thought of his childhood adversary, Harry remembered his dream. _What did it all mean?_ It seemed so odd to him that he should dream of someone like Malfoy in such a vulnerable way. But then, Harry remembered the night in the North Tower. Malfoy was partly responsible for Dumbledore’s death, Harry knew that. But recollecting the look on the young Slytherin’s face, his paleness, the lack of bite to his voice … it made it hard for Harry to see him as a murderer.

He shook off his thoughts as they entered the class room. “Now, it should be the blackboard. We have to say _Pessidium_.” Harry folded the map up and stuffed it in the back of his jeans again.

Ron tapped his wand against the blackboard. _“Pessidium!”_ he said, and the board seemed to dissolve away, revealing another long tunnel. “Damn it,” muttered Ron. “What is it with this castle and tunnels?” Harry shrugged.

“Where does this lead us, Harry?” Hermione asked, climbing up into the tunnel.

“Right near Hogsmeade Station, I think.”

It was three long hours of awkward hiking before they reached the end. They had dived straight down for ages and Harry was positive they had gone underground, and then they had suddenly started climbing up. Harry’s legs felt like jelly by the time they reached the pothole about two-hundred metres from the train tracks at Hogsmeade Station. They all climbed out and flopped onto the ground. It had been noon when they had apparated from Wales to the Highlands where Hogwarts resided. But now it was pitch black and stars littered the sky. They rested silently in the grass for a few minutes, listening to owls hooting to the moon when Hermione had suddenly stood up and had hoisted them to their feet. 

“Here,” she declared. “We should do it here.”

“Here? But-”

“No, listen Harry; we should do this right now. Then we can go find somewhere to stay, get a good nights sleep, and go searching again tomorrow.”

Harry nodded his head with a sigh and pulled the cup out of its pouch. “Okay, what do I do?”

“Er, maybe you should let me do it, Harry. I’m more familiar with this sort of magic.”

“Okay.” Harry put the cup down on the ground and stepped back. Ron stood by his side as Hermione did a few practice waves and muttered under her breath. She swallowed in the night’s air and closed her eyes in concentration. She raised her wand and pointed to the sky. They could feel the wind pick up pace around them and whistle eerily. _“Descendion!”_ she shouted and loud thwack of lightning instantly shot down and entered her wand. Harry and Ron took another step back. _“Acendion!”_ Hermione pointed her now glowing wand to the ground and another bolt of lightning came up from the earth, spraying dirt everywhere. Hermione’s wand was now too bright to look directly at. She pointed it to the cup. _“Barredae!”_

The lightning shot out of Hermione’s wand and broke the cup in half with a sickening crack. Instantly, a foggy black cloud shot out of the cup.

“What the hell is that?” Ron shouted, still covering his ears from the sound of the lightning.

“Oh no,” said Hermione, now very pale and weak looking. The spell seemed to have taken a lot out of her. “It’s the soul! The spell only got it _out_ of the cup! I can’t believe I didn’t think of this! Quick! Stop it!” 

The black cloud was floating away quickly. _“Stupefy!”_ Ron shouted. The cloud slowed down for a moment but a second later was moving again. They began running after it.

“Stop it!” Hermione screamed desperately. “It’ll go back to Voldemort! He’ll know what we’re doing!”

_“Stupefy!”_ All three of them shouted in unison. The black fog stopped, but it was beginning to unfreeze itself again.

“What do we do?” Ron asked, ashen faced.

“We have to kill it!” Hermione and Ron looked to Harry. He hesitated for only a moment before raising his wand, thinking of all the hate and rage he had for Voldemort. This was always going to happen ... eventually. Harry’s eyes sparked with power. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

… to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** “Lledrithio Caer” means plainly in Welsh, “Haunted Castle” … I think.  
Thanks so much to Kristin (a.k.a. **AbundantFear** ) for her magnificent beta job. Some people think gravity makes the world go ‘round, but really it is our betas.

**raining_slash**


	4. The First Culling

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“The enemy is anybody who’s going to get you killed, no matter which side he’s on.” – Joseph Heller_

Chapter Four: The First Culling

It had been two wretched days since the last meeting. During that time, Draco had begun to feel worse than ever about his current position, and had begun to doubt what he had always thought to be true. It shook his reality to its core and he had been walking around in a bubble for several days - like it was not his life he was currently living, but someone else’s and he was just observing it. 

Draco stood in his usual place on the dais with Snape and Avery either side of him. He looked down at the thousand strong mass of aristocrats, thieves, businessmen and murderers chattering excitedly together about the massacre coming. They wore expressions that he had only imagined vampires and other such creatures’ would wear. The look of blood-lust. He stifled his need to gulp.

Draco had known this day was coming for some time, yet he had always found ways to push it out of his mind. And now that the day _had_ come, everything was happening much too fast for his comprehension.

The chatter began to die away as Nagini slithered onto the dais from the door at the back, the signal that the Dark Lord was coming. The snake’s master followed behind him not a moment later and the chatter died - fear took its place.

The Dark Lord stood before them in silence, surveying them all but meeting no one’s eye. Draco could see that he enjoyed watching these men and women, many of high social station, stand in awe and fear of him. It made him seem petty to Draco, though Draco did not understand why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. 

“My servants,” his hiss echoed off the cave walls. “Today is a great day for us.” No one dared to even breathe too loudly. Draco noticed that Harris Houghton had in fact _stopped_ breathing, due to his deviated septum, and was turning an interesting shade of blue. “Today is the day that the world, magic and muggle alike, will see just how powerful we are.” The Dark Lord’s voice quickened and became more impassioned. “Today is the day that muggles and Mudbloods will know their place in this world … in _my_ world. Terror will reign!” 

The crowd could not contain their blood thirst and they began to scream in anticipation. They raised their hands and stomped their feet, their screeching echoing off the walls. They sounded like hyenas. Like banshees, like wraiths … like death. Draco wanted to block his ears; he had never heard anything more disturbing in his life. He felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest and he began breathing heavily. The Dark Lord, however, seemed pleased. “Yes! Terror will reign and the streets of muggle England will run red with blood! Today is the first day of the rest of their lives. Because their lives will become ours! Today will be remembered! Every one of you will be glorified in our history! Today is the first culling.”

The roar that met these words were deafening and Draco could not help but cover his ears and hope that in all the excitement no one noticed the look of complete and utter panic on his face. 

“Go now! Follow your leaders and return to me, my children, with your appetites finally sated!” The roar grew to fever pitch and Draco could feel the cave floor moving beneath the platform. He tried to catch his breath but had only a second before Avery had grabbed him by the neck of his robes and pulled him off the dais. “You’re with me, Malfoy. Come on!”

Draco was dragged from the cave with a group of at least twenty men and about three women, led by Avery. Draco noticed that Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were also in this group, and almost as if by habit, they stood either side of him. 

They ran down the mountain path - not an easy feat with only the moon for light - until they reached a beaten down muggle car. Avery held up his wrist to look at the time. “We’re first!” he shouted as Bellatrix ran towards the car, a group of men and women in tow. Draco noticed that a few of them had lit their wands and he felt foolish for not thinking to do the same.

“Well hurry up then! It changes destination every thirty seconds!” she told him. “And don’t forget to apparate out, the Portkey won’t follow you!”

“Quickly then, everyone grab hold of the car!” Draco robotically followed orders and went to hold onto a rusty windscreen wiper but was nearly violently knocked aside by an overly enthusiastic man. He had to be a least seven feet tall and about as wide, he had a mangy beard and beady little black eyes. He was panting in anticipation and Draco moved aside and placed his hand carefully on the bonnet. 

His fear had reached its peak, and suddenly the Portkey began sending them forth. The air whistled loudly in his ear and the feeling of being dragged by every limb in different directions was upon him. It ended quickly and he was dropped heavily to the concrete ground in a heap. 

The silent noise that had been shrieking at him back at the mountain had now disappeared. He looked up and down the muggle street he now lay in. Only the fear remained. There was complete stillness at first, as they each took in their new surrounding. It did not last. The huge man gave a mighty howl and ran into the nearest home, his wand held high. The others began to follow, some on their own some in pairs, sprinting to the houses. 

Avery grabbed Draco’s robes again and led him into the street opposite the one they had landed in. Draco felt like he was in a dream as he began to hear the screams from the other streets and every fibre of his being was begging him to wake up. 

Avery led him up a gardened path and into a modest house. He had only a moment to look to his right and see an extremely overweight father and son sitting in front of a strange box before Avery had waved his wand and performed the killing curse on both. Their lifeless bodies slumped in the couch before they had even realised they had company. 

Draco’s breath caught. His head began screaming at him. _Escape. Escape! ESCAPE!_ It was all happening too fast. 

“I’ll go to another house,” Avery said with a new spring in his voice. “Look around here and kill anyone else.” With that he raced out of the home in search of fresh prey. Draco stood still in the entrance, his eyes still on the slumped bodies and his ears filled with the screams coming from down the neighbouring streets.

“What is all this noise?” A woman’s voice came from behind him. “Vernon, Mrs. Figg must be having trouble with the ca…” The voice cut off as the woman spotted Draco. 

The tall, thin, bird-like lady had an armful of freshly ironed clothes and looked Draco up and down with wide eyes. Her face began to pale as she took in Draco’s robes and the wand in his hand. It almost seemed like she knew what he was. She slowly looked behind Draco and saw her husband and son. She dropped the ironing and ran towards them, nearly knocking Draco over in the process. 

Draco watched in horror as her face began to crumple and she shook her son by the shoulders ferociously, trying to wake him up. But she could not.

“I … I …” Draco didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He was feeling faint and his head and heart and legs were screaming at him to escape. But he didn’t know where. There was no where for him to go.

The woman looked up at Draco, her face suddenly hard and fists clenched. “ _You!_ You-”

“No!” Draco shouted. “I did-didn’t … it wasn’t me. I swear it!”

The woman, far to consumed in her sudden boiling hate seemed to neither notice nor care that Draco was talking. She ran for him her arms outstretched as if ready to bowl him over. 

_“Dionysus!”_ The woman was thrown back, more powerfully than Draco had intended in his desperation. It was only as she fell to the carpeted floor, and blood began to pool around her middle that Draco realised he had thrown her onto the pointy trophy that had stood in the centre of the coffee table. He could see it sticking out from her belly and Draco was about to faint when Avery came up behind him and slapped him encouragingly on the back. “Blood thirsty, aren’t you? That’s good. But no more tonight, c’mon let’s go.”

Avery, once again, began dragging Draco by the robes back to where they had originally landed. But even as they left the street, Draco could not get the image of that woman’s crumpled face out of his head. 

The sounds of muggle police cars could be heard in the distance and Draco was vaguely aware of Avery rounding everyone up. The giant man was not responding though. He had a young boy’s, clearly lifeless body, in his hands and was tossing it around his head and screaming to the full moon. At last he let the boy go and his body landed at Draco’s feet on the concrete with a sickening crack. The little boy’s eyes were wide open; the look of absolute terror was still in them. 

Draco was about to vomit right there in front of all of them, but through some grace of God, Avery yelled, “Apparate now!” And they began popping away. Draco vomited there on the road with no one alive in sight. When he was done, he was too horrified to do anything but stand there and look into those boys’ eyes. Only when the lights of the approaching muggle police cars came into view did Draco finally begin drumming up some sense. He raised his wand and apparated away. Looking more like the dead lying in that little muggle village, than the living that had murdered them.

**(())**

“Full moon tonight.” Ron looked out the window of their cheap hotel room on the outskirts of London. “We should probably get acquainted with it; Hermione reckons if we stay at another hotel we won’t have enough money for food.”

“Hmm.” Harry was lying on the lumpy bed, engrossed in his father’s journal, and was not paying attention.

“We could transfigure money, but Hermione says it won’t last and it’s not fair to do that to the muggles.”

“Yeah,” said Harry vaguely.

Ron sighed. “Harry, Hermione told me that you are a reincarnation of a baby elephant that tragically lost its life to a giant lioness in Niger, Africa. Is she telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry said quietly, now consulting the map.

Ron smirked. “Was she telling the truth about you being in love with Malfoy and that you’ve being having a rampant affair with him for years?”

Harry snapped out of it. “What? What are you going on about?”

“Just uncovering some nameless truths,” said Ron, still smirking.

“Right,” said Harry. “Well I think I’ve figured something out. Where’s Hermione?”

“Checking out the bathroom situation.”

“Meaning …?”

“She’s getting rid of the spiders before I have my shower,” said Ron with his arms crossed and a look on his face that just dared Harry to laugh. 

The bathroom door opened and Hermione came out. “All clear, Ron.”

“Harry reckons his found something,” said Ron.

“Ooo … what?” said Hermione, bouncing onto the bed next to Harry. Harry pulled his glasses down and scratched his eyes. “I think I’ve figured out what was in the cave.”

“What?” asked Ron, joining them on the bed. Harry continued to scratch his eyes.

“Are you having trouble with your glasses, Harry? You’ve been scratching since we got back from Hogwarts,” Hermione queried.

“I don’t think it’s my glasses. It’s my eyes,” said Harry. “It’s blurry when I look through the lenses. Like I don’t need them.”

“What about with them off?” Ron asked. Harry took them off and squinted a bit. 

“It’s a little better, but I still can’t see very well.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, with a frown on her face. “Maybe your eyes have started correcting themselves? Seems odd though. Give them here for a second.”

Harry handed them over and Hermione twirled her wand around for a few seconds and then handed the glasses back.

“Oh, that’s better!” said Harry. “What did you do?”

“Just fixed the lenses up. So anyway, what do you think was in the cave?”

“Oh, right. A statue. I think it was a little gold statue of a horse.” 

“A horse?” snorted Ron, not convinced.

“Yes, a horse. But not any horse. Look, my dad wrote about it.” Harry picked up the journal and read out an entry. _“‘The four founders chose the animals that would represent their houses at Hogwarts, just like they chose their representative colours. Three of the founders chose their favourite animals (Helga Hufflepuff must have been a seriously weird lady – a badger?), but Gryffindor chose a lion for two reasons. Firstly, his appearance. It is well known, even today, that Godric Gryffindor bore a striking resemblance to a lion (poor bastard). Secondly, the lion is considered to be the king of animals and the most courageous of animals - a characteristic that Gryffindor revered above any other. But Gryffindor’s favourite animal was the horse. His own was a massive stallion, twenty hands high, and such a bright caramel colour that it looked almost gold. Hence, the gold statue of the horse that Gryffindor had made when the animal died.’”_

“Interesting …” said Hermione. “But where is it now?”

“Well, my dad wrote that Regulus Black took it but it doesn’t say anything else. It could be anywhere.” Harry sighed.

“So what do you want to do?” asked Ron.

“I want to go back to the Dursley’s and get the ring. We have to try and figure out where Dumbledore found it, then we can go out again.”

“Fair enough. When should we leave?” asked Ron.

“Tonight. It’ll be better if we don’t have to pay for another night here. Have your shower Ron, and then we’ll go.”

“Are you telling me I smell?”

“Today you’re pretty good, actually.” 

Hermione laughed and Ron pushed Harry hard to the head board of the bed. “Don’t be an asshole, Harry. It’s very unbecoming.”

“Well don’t accuse me of shagging Draco Malfoy,” said Harry, laughing and lying back on the bed.

Ron joined Harry. “I didn’t think you were listening. I called you a baby elephant as well.”

“That would be a sight,” said Hermione, squishing herself in-between the two boys.

“Harry, the Baby Elephant. Yeah, I suppose it would be,” said Ron as Hermione took both their hands in her own and held their arms in the air. She laughed. “I meant Harry and Malfoy shagging.” 

Ron snorted at the same time as Harry shouted, “Oi!”

“Fuck Hermione, I think you’re the one that needs to have a shower,” Ron laughed.

“Don’t swear, Ron!” Hermione dropped his hand and slapped him hard on his thigh.

“Oh, who’s a hypocrite then Miss Hermione ‘Scrigmeour’s-such-a-fuck’ Granger?” said Harry in mock indignation.

“Yeah, exactly!” exclaimed Ron.

“He is a fuck and so are you two!” Hermione sat up, trying to disguise her laughter through a frown. 

A childish pillow fight ensued and only ended when Harry fell from the bed, banging his head on the bedside table in the process. He rubbed his forehead gingerly.

“See! You are a fuck,” exclaimed Hermione with her hands on her hips and throwing Ron a dirty, accusing look.

The boys immediately erupted into more laughter and Hermione shook her head and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Once out of their sight, she finally allowed herself a smile.

**(())**

Ron grimaced. He didn’t know much about the muggle world, but he knew that all those red lights and all those men with those gun-things were not a good sign. He had seen pictures of these in Percy’s Muggle Studies text books. 

Policemen. Detectives. Ambulances.

He looked to Harry and Hermione. They were crouched down behind the hedge of number one, Privet Drive, and were trying to stay out of sight of the many muggle authority figures that were surrounding the streets. 

“What on Earth has happened?” Hermione asked quietly. Harry’s face had gone hard and Ron knew it was something bad. The clicking noise of a camera going off very close to them grabbed their attention. Directly in front of the hedge they were hiding behind, Ron could just make out in the dark, the body of muggle woman. She had no marks on her. There was no blood. But she was clearly dead. 

“Death Eaters …” Harry whispered. Ron shuddered and Hermione clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

Harry quickly ran from the hedge toward a parked car sitting underneath the street lights. Ron followed behind with Hermione. Harry pulled out his shrunken trunk from his robe pocket, and reversed the shrinking spell. He silently pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and chucked it to Hermione. “You two get under that, stay close.” Harry re-shrunk his trunk and put it back in his robe pocket. 

Hermione pulled the cloak over them and they squished together - Ron having to duck most uncomfortably - and walked as fast as they could as Harry stealthily moved his way through the mass of muggle authority figures - dodging behind cars and bushes. Ron had trouble keeping an eye on his friend and Hermione kept elbowing him very close to his nether regions.

After a minute, Harry was crouching in a garden of hydrangeas, underneath the window of his relatives’ house. Ron could hear the sounds of policemen talking inside. They waited until the muggles walked out of the house, looking like ghosts, shaking their heads wearily and sadly. They were muttering to each other, “Who did this?”

Ron watched Harry creep inside the front door and he and Hermione clumsily climbed the steps up to the entrance, staying squished together. Ron looked to his left and up the stairs – everything seemed fine. His eyes caught Harry’s face though, it was pale and his eyes were wide. Ron followed Harry’s gaze and could not contain a small shout. 

Hermione yanked the cloak off them and moved to Harry, trying to pull him into a hug. Harry pushed her away harshly, his face contorted in pain, and moved toward his aunt. Her eyes were wide open, but Ron could see they were no longer of any use. They were glassy and unnatural. Ron couldn’t move his feet. It didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem real that the muggles had become a part of their war. Part of the wizard war. But then, he supposed they always had been – they had just never known it.

Ron watched Harry lean over his aunt and a single tear slid down his face and dropped onto her cheek. Harry gently closed her eyes and stood over her for a moment, then his attention was turned to the mantle. Ron again, followed his gaze. There, right next to a photo of Harry’s uncle and cousin – taken when Harry’s cousin was still a toddler – was a photograph of Harry and his aunt. Ron did not recall seeing the non-moving picture last time he had been there. 

Toddler Harry was sitting on his aunt’s lap, looking up at the camera with his big green eyes, a pacifier in his mouth and his aunt looking down at him lovingly. Harry stood still for a moment then quickly moved forward and grabbed the photo and frame. He then rushed up the stairs and disappeared into a room, coming back down with a little black box in his hand. 

His face was dark and hard and he did not look like the Harry Ron knew and loved. Hermione was sobbing softly on Ron’s shoulder. 

“Let’s get out of here.” Harry’s face was like steel.

**(())**

Draco could not get comfortable. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, which meant that he had not slept in twenty-six hours. But it did not seem to matter. The harder he tried to force his eyes to close and remain so, the more reluctant for sleep they seemed. 

He tossed and turned in his bed, his deathly fatigue exacerbated by the most incredible feeling of guilt and dread he had never imagined possible. He had finally become what he had been threatening to since he was a small child. He was a murderer. 

Draco threw his covers over his head and clutched the sheets, biting his bottom lip and trying not to cry. He was stuck. He was stuck in this life. A life that had been designed for him, and he had allowed it because of his own fear and cowardice. Draco could not go through another night like that one. He could not go through _anything_ like that again. Draco did not want to live like that. At that moment, Draco did not want to live, full stop.

He wondered how things had gotten so terrible. He had never imagined his life would be like this. That his life would _feel_ like this. His father had always spoken of being a Death Eater like it was the greatest job in the world. Like it was something of dignity, something to be proud of. They were ridding the wizarding world of its scum. They were bringing back the prestige associated with being a pureblood. They were doing what was right.

But it was all a lie. A farce. And Draco was lost in it. 

“Draco, darling? Are you in here?” Narcissa was tapping on his door, he would not answer her. He would not see her. She was partly to blame for this. How could she let her own son go through that? Didn’t she know him better? What kind of people were his parents? And how come he had never noticed it all before? 

Draco bit his bottom lip harder and he realised that he _had_ noticed. He just hadn’t cared. Because he had been ignorant and young and the Dark Lord had made him feel powerful and important and he had liked that feeling. He still liked that feeling. But was the greatness worth it? Draco didn’t think so.

“Please let me in, darling.” Her tapping became more insistent and Draco scrunched his eyes shut and his bottom lip began bleeding. He would not answer her. He would not see her. He began muttering under his breath what he could not bring himself to say out loud, “Go away, go away, go away.” It became like a mantra, in rhythm with his mother’s knocking. 

Finally, she desisted, and Draco made up his mind. He would not live like this anymore. He would just not live.

**(())**

“Are you sure this is safe,” whispered Ron to the clear night sky. Harry did not answer him. 

“It’s a national park, the animals in here a generally human-friendly. Besides, we’ve got our wands and there are no magical creatures here,” Hermione replied.

Harry lay on his back, looking at the stars, paying no attention to his friends. They continued to make small talk, and all the while, trying to pull him into the conversation. But Harry was locked in his own thoughts and Ron and Hermione recognised the look on their friend’s face … he was concocting a plan.

After half and hour of complete silence from Harry, Hermione grabbed his arm and shook him slightly. “Please, Harry. Please talk to us about what happened. You need to let something out, or we won’t be able to move on.” Her voice was sincere and pleading.

Harry sat up and looked her in the eye. “I’m not talking about it. We _can_ move on. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Where to?” Ron asked. 

Harry did not look at him, but did offer and answer. “Azkaban.” 

Harry stood up and pulled out his father’s journal from his trunk. He opened it to the centre. In the dark it was hard to make out clearly, but a detailed map of Azkaban Prison, including its location, was there. 

Hermione began to shake. “Why are we going there?” she asked, her obvious trepidation not affecting the currently apathetic Harry. 

“We’re going to Azkaban,” said Harry, his voice crisp and clear, “to speak to Lucius Malfoy.”

**(())**

Understanding Lucius Malfoy, was not as impossible as many believed. All over the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters, people had tried to break down his character so that one day they could break _him_ and render him useless to the Dark Lord. 

The first thing they had decided was that he could not, and frankly _would_ not, be defined by one thing. He was a complex being. A walking contradiction. 

There were only two things that they knew for sure; Lucius Malfoy loved, and Lucius Malfoy hated. And they were positive that once they could distinguish what fell under what category, they had him. 

Unfortunately for them – that was never going to work. Lucius Malfoy is much cleverer than most. Lucius, unlike them, knew exactly how to break a man. You do not do it by finding out what will bring them to pieces; that would be a long and futile journey. What you need to find out, is what will _mend_ a broken man.

You take that away, and there goes their life’s insurance policy.

People thought Lucius Malfoy was cruel and arrogant. This was both an under and over estimation. To work by the Dark Lord’s side, you needed to be more than cruel; you needed to redefine the word. But this cruelty did not stretch over every part of his life. Remember, Lucius loved.

He loved his son. 

His life insurance policy. 

He loved his son just as much as any other father would. And any other father would give up everything and anyone for their son. Lucius Malfoy, despite popular opinion, was no different. 

To most, Lucius seemed indifferent to Draco. Most thought he saw Draco as a possession, much like the way he saw his wife, but this had not been so. 

Lucius had plans for his son. Great plans. And they had not included the Dark Lord. For Lucius had realised many years ago that the Dark Lord’s ideals, whilst admirable, were very unattainable. But Lucius had become far to engrossed in it to get out, he knew that. Besides, he enjoyed it. But Lucius did not want Draco to become involved. The risk of death was far too great, and his son deserved more than that.

Unfortunately for Lucius, his Dark Lord had taken a hunch on Draco being his weakness last year, and of course, the Dark Lord had been right. Lucius had finally been broken when his master took revenge on him through his son. 

But Lucius had been locked up, and no one had seen him, and no one had heard him. No one knew that he had broken. And so Lucius had began to hope. He read the papers that the Ministry guards gave him. He scrutinized every article and pumped anyone who walked into the prison for information. 

His mind had begun to flutter. He began breaking incidents down, breaking down peoples’ characters, and almost like a clairvoyant, something became painfully obvious to Lucius; and he began to mend.

Potter was on his own. Potter knew next to nothing of Death Eater activities. Dumbledore was gone. Lucius knew Potter. Potter, unlike him, was very easy to understand. It was only a matter of time. Lucius made a plan of his own. 

He would be giving up everything. He knew that. But his son … his prized son would have a chance.

Indeed, Lucius Malfoy was a very clever man. And that is why, as the guard opened his cell on a frosty morning and handed him his breakfast, he was not at all surprised to find that it was no guard at all, but Harry Potter.

… to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Massive hugs to my beta **AbundantFear**.

**raining_slash**


	5. An Unlikely Ally

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“If you want to make peace, you don’t talk to your friends. You talk to your enemies.” – Moshe Dayan_

Chapter Five: An Unlikely Ally

Lucius Malfoy made no attempt to hide his lack of surprise. He looked up at the young man with an arrogant, knowing smirk. Immature perhaps, but after all these years, Lucius could not help but be Lucius. Besides which, it was important that he remain in control and not reveal that Harry Potter, was in fact the one with nearly all the power.

Lucius watched Potter pull the hood off his robes and put the breakfast tray - with hard, stale bread and a side serving of cold porridge - on the little, rickety table in the corner of the cell. 

Potter looked around the little habitat, a disgusted look on his face as his eyes travelled over the rusty bars, the dirty floor and bed, the cold stone walls, and maybe even Lucius’ appearance. But really, it was prison, what did Potter expect? Actually, Lucius imagined he would like quite well in comparison to the way he was a year ago, when the Dementors were still here haunting the inmates. 

Potter looked different to what Lucius remembered. In Lucius’ mind he had always bore the striking resemblance of his father, James - haughty and sure in appearance, but vulnerable underneath. But now, on closer inspection – and perhaps a different outlook - Lucius saw more of that Mudblood, Lily. She had been meek at first glance, but if you really looked; you could see the magic and the mind bubbling away under the surface. Potter stood tall and proud, leaking power. He’d found his balance. If Lucius hadn’t been so blindly desperate, he might’ve been intimidated.

Lucius gestured freely to the only chair in the tiny cell for Potter to sit on. Potter pulled the grimy, wooden chair over to himself and sat down in front of Lucius, his eyes wide and daring. Daring Lucius to make the first move. This suited him just fine. Lucius began a slow prowl around the cell. He walked back and forth, looking down at Potter menacingly and making it clear who was in charge.

“What a nice surprise,” Lucius drawled out easily. Quite an accomplishment as Lucius had not spoken a word since Fudge had come in a few days ago and had given Lucius a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. 

Potter tilted his head contemptuously. “The first thing out of your mouth is a lie,” he said carefully. “This isn’t going to go well. You are clearly _not_ surprised to see me here, and it is most definitely _not_ nice.” 

Lucius was impressed, but he was careful not to show it. The brat had gotten a bit of bite into him since they’d last met. And the boy was, possibly, as perceptive as him. “Very well,” Lucius smirked, not finished with the games just yet. “But before we get to the particulars, I’m curious as to how you got in here, Potter. Because honestly, if it were that easy people would certainly do it more often.”

Potter looked away for a moment, clearly reluctant to answer. Lucius stood over him like a teacher telling off a petulant child. Potter didn’t want to give too much away and he definitely didn’t want to be too co-operative. But he had to. Potter was just as aware as he was of how this was going to work. Tit for tat. 

He met Lucius’ disdainful gaze and said resignedly, “It’s not that hard to get in here now that the Dementors are gone. Invisibility Cloaks and certain spells will do it. It’s getting on the island that’s the hard part.” Lucius began to prowl again and waved his hand for him to continue. Potter rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed but he went to continue. This pleased Lucius immensely. Clearly Potter hadn’t yet realised that this little meeting meant as much to Lucius as it did to himself. 

“Its location is known only to those who work here and senior members of the Ministry. And even when you know where it is, it’s not exactly easy to get on here.” Potter scratched his chin and continued. “There is a magical barrier circling the whole island, not to mention the Sea Monster that guards the place.”

“So what did the great hero do?” Lucius asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I killed two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“Meaning?”

“I attracted the Sea Monster to the boundary,” Potter said, no emotion or pride in his achievement, “and enticed it to break through the ward. The barrier collapsed, temporarily, and the monster died. Nearly all the guards have left the island to get the ward back up before someone notices. They don’t seem to have guessed anything other than the monster suddenly came down with suicidal urges.”

Lucius tsked sardonically. “It _is_ a hard life.” 

Potter frowned and crossed his arms. “I have another twenty minutes – tops - until they get that ward back up and then I’m stuck in here so if you’re quite done …?”

“Would you care if I said I was impressed?” he said, his sarcasm still obvious.

“No,” snorted Potter, truthfully. 

Lucius laughed at him. “Fine then. What do you want, Potter?”

“You know what I want,” said Potter. “Information. The question is, what do _you_ want in return?”

“Clever boy,” said Lucius quietly, dropping the façade a little. Potter’s green eyes shone brightly in the murky cell, studying Lucius in a very insidious manner. “I want freedom, Potter.”

Potter’s face changed suddenly and Lucius recognised that look and was extremely put out. Potter pitied him. If Lucius didn’t need him so badly, he would’ve killed the little twat right then. Instead, he smothered his anger as much as was possible. 

“I can’t get you out of here, Malfoy. You know that,” said Potter, in a small voice.

Lucius let out a strangled chuckle, still peeved and trying not to show it. “Yes, I know that. But freedom is the bargain.” Potter made to interrupt, looking frustrated, but Lucius silenced him with a wave and said, “I never said I wanted _my_ freedom.”

Potter’s eyebrows furrowed and Lucius could see the boy’s mind working it over. Lucius perceived the exact moment when it hit him. Potter’s eyes’ got a sudden shine to them and his mouth formed a shocked smile.

“You want me to save your son.”

Lucius smiled, true and sad. “I want you to save my son.”

**(())**

Hermione stayed hunched on the red, floating buoy, snuggling herself into Ron who put his arm around her. It was deathly cold. She wanted to use a heating spell, but was worried it might be detected by the prison guards that surrounded the sea. Besides which, then she wouldn’t have an excuse to cosy up to Ron.

“I dunno,” said an Azkaban correctional officer in the distance. Hermione listened carefully, making sure they didn’t come to the conclusion that someone had broken into the prison. It had not been easy. They’d had to apparate to a nearby island and then transfigure rocks into these red, floating buoys. They’d then had to try and stay balanced as they floated around the then standing barrier, transfiguring more rocks into humungous tuna - a feat that only Hermione could accomplish – to attract the sea monster. They then proceeded to aggravate it with random hexes until it became so enraged that it made to lunge for them and broke down the barrier. This had caused the water to break into massive waves that had sent Hermione into the sea. Ron had – very heroically, in Hermione’s opinion – fished her out. 

“Never seen nuffink like it. Maybe it got sleepy or somefink?”

“Very unlikely,” the prison warden replied.

“Whyzzat?” asked the officer.

“Caves …” Hermione whispered quietly. Ron looked at her questioningly.

“Because sea octopi sleep in ocean caves,” said the warden, a little impatiently. Ron smiled down at Hermione and she suddenly felt much warmer. “Something’s happened. I want you to check on the prisoners. Make sure everyone’s accounted for. They’ll have the barrier back up in a few minutes.”

Hermione’s feeling of warmth went quickly. If they searched the cells, they’d find Lucius Malfoy was not alone. She looked up at Ron. “We have to do something, stall them a bit,” she whispered. He nodded his head. 

They regrettably untangled themselves from each other and slowly turned around to look beyond the buoy at the warden and correctional officer. The two men stood on a portable pier. It was like a barge with railings that glided smoothly over the ocean’s surface. The Sea Monster, roughly the size of a football ground, lay around them, its many legs off in different directions. It had terrible, rank smell and a tough, botchy, purplish hide.

Hermione saw the bald warden and the chubby officer looking down at the monster a little nervously. She racked her brain trying to find something to do to delay them.

“Come then, Quiggins, lets get going. That thing is giving me the … the-”

“The wiggins, sir?”

The warden gave a choking noise. “Um, yes, well. Let’s get out of here.”

Hermione smirked as an idea came to her. She aimed her wand at one of the gargantuan legs of the sea monsters’. _“Wingardium Leviosa!”_ she whispered. The leg sluggishly raised itself from the ocean, disturbing the calm surface and splashing water everywhere. The chubby man called Quiggins screeched loudly. 

“It’s alive! It’s bloody _alive_!”

The warden had gone a horrible shade of grey and Hermione raised her wand high and quickly brought it back down again. The leg imitated her actions and slammed into the barge, breaking it clean in half. 

The warden and the officer went flying into the drink, flailing their limbs about and sending red sparks in the air for the officers on the other portable piers around them to see.

“Help us!” the warden cried to a distant barge that began gliding towards them. “Get the veterinarian or something! It’s still alive!”

Ron chuckled and Hermione smiled proudly. “Let’s get back to the wharf.” She tapped her wand at the back of the buoy and a little propeller appeared. They began to slowly float back to the dock at the closest island to Azkaban, Krazbavan.

She’d bought Harry a little bit more time. Hopefully it was enough.

**(())**

“What makes you think your son wants saving?” Harry said darkly. “The last time I saw him, he seemed pleased enough with the direction his life was taking.”

This was not entirely true, but Harry needed to know Lucius’ motivations and his reasoning. One did not simply kidnap a Death Eater and tell them their father doesn’t approve so maybe they should try a career in expressive arts? Harry was no fool.

“Perhaps this is true,” Lucius replied easily. “But I know my son. I raised him. What he lets people see and what he feels are often quite different.” Lucius had stopped pacing and was sitting on the bed.

Harry had always thought this true of Draco Malfoy, and so did not bother arguing. Instead, he decided to get straight to the point. “How am I meant to do this? How do you know where he’ll be? What am I meant to say? And, most importantly, will you make it worth my while?”

“You will take him from the Manor. He will be there because it is my birthday tomorrow, August twenty-fifth. You will tell him nothing. And I, unquestionably, will make it worth your while.” Lucius’ tone was very business-like. “You will bring him here, to me. Once I can ascertain that you have been successful, and I have spoken to him, you will have the liberty of asking me anything you like and if I know the answer, I will give it.”

“And then what? You’ll escape from here together? I can’t let that happen.” Harry shook his head.

“Don’t be stupid, Potter. The law might think I deserve to be here, but in helping me and letting me go, you will save many more,” Lucius patronized. “You might actually have a chance with the information I can provide. In war Potter, you have to do what’s necessary to survive.” 

Harry didn’t like it. He didn’t trust Lucius and he didn’t like his chances of being able to get back into Azkaban undetected, let alone get a hold of his son. There was something that Lucius wasn’t telling him.

“I don’t trust you,” said Harry, darkly. He kicked the dirt up off the floor.

“I’d think you a fool if you did,” drawled Lucius. “But whatever underhandedness I might reveal – or not reveal - during our exchanges, I’m sure will be equally matched by your own. Don’t act so righteous,” Lucius lectured. “You have your own hidden agenda too. And remember, I have much more to lose in this than you.”

“That’s why I don’t trust you!” Harry retaliated quickly. “You would never negotiate unless you were sure you had complete control.”

Lucius looked truly impatient for the first time that morning. “Fine, let’s try this from a different angle. Do you think Draco deserves what he’s gone through? And don’t play games with me Potter, you now perfectly well why he stays with them. Everyone does.”

_For you and your wife_ , thought Harry. Draco Malfoy was being held into service via blackmail. But this didn’t change the facts. “I think he has no one but himself, and maybe you, to blame for his fortunes.”

“True. But does he deserve it?”

Harry looked away.

“Answer the question Potter!” Lucius snapped.

“You already know the answer so why ask it?” Harry rose from his chair, his hands clenched. “Do you think I’d even be entertaining the idea if I didn’t feel at least a _little_ bit of fucking sympathy for him? But it doesn’t change the fact that you are both Death Eaters, that you have done despicable things, and that you will continue to – whether as Voldemort’s puppets or some other means – if I let you just walk out of here!” 

Lucius sat quietly. He looked slightly humbled, but Harry thought he was probably putting it on. The never-fading look of smugness was still there too. He knew what Harry was going to say. The information that Lucius could offer was too valuable not to attempt the man’s request. Besides which, was Harry’s very inconvenient hero-complex. And he had not forgotten that dream he’d had a few days ago. It almost seemed like his subconscious had foreshadowed their meeting. Harry couldn’t escape the feeling he’d had for some time now, that Draco Malfoy still had a part to play in this war. He supposed it was time for it to come out. 

“How do I get into the Manor?” Harry asked quietly, sitting back in the chair, his resignation obvious.

Lucius smirked happily. “Excellent.”

**(())**

Hermione sat hunched under the main wharf, the damp sand stuck in her shoes. She was snuggled into Ron who had his eyes pierced on the ocean, hoping to catch a glimpse of Harry’s own little buoy. 

“How long has he been?” Ron asked, his voice full of concern. Hermione loved Ron and Harry’s boundless devotion to each other; it made them seem more vulnerable to her and therefore, more real. It was lesson to her as well - to everyone – of what true friendship was.

She smiled reassuringly up at him. “He’ll be fine. You know he will.”

Ron shook his head, melodramatically. “How can you be so calm about everything? I seriously feel like joining the sea monster in the drink just to stop the endless stress. I’m sure this is going to have shocking affects on my social abilities later in life.”

Hermione couldn’t help but giggle. He smiled back at her and kissed her softly on the forehead. Her breath immediately caught in her throat and like she’d mjust had a hot coffee, her tummy became warm and full. It was a short lived feeling though as Ron suddenly began crawling away. “There’s the floaty-thingy!”

“It’s called a ‘buoy’,” said Hermione, disappointed as every time she ever got a moment alone with Ron, something interrupted them.

“Whatever, Harry’s alright!” said Ron, his relief evident.

As Harry washed up on the shore Ron waved him over to them under the wharf. Harry gave a little wave of acknowledgement and then pushed the buoy back into the ocean. They would apparate off Krazbavan. 

Harry was doing a fabulous impersonation of a drowned rat so Hermione quickly performed a drying charm. 

Harry then collapsed rather inelegantly on the sand at their feet. “Thanks Hermione,” he said, still exhausted but at least dry.

“Did you have trouble getting out?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded his head and choked out, “I only just made it. The barrier was going up and I think one of the guards might’ve seen me, but they couldn’t do anything about it ‘cause they were trying to hold the barrier up.”

“Shit.” Ron ran his hand through his hair, nervously. “You aren’t exactly unrecognizable, this might mean trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.” Harry reached into his robes and pulled out a bit of frayed parchment. “They won’t know what I was doing there, just that I _was_ there.”

“I guess. So then,” Ron asked, his face full of anticipation. “How was it? What was he like?”

“Worryingly unchanged,” said Harry forebodingly.

“That sounds dubious. What did he tell you?” asked Hermione.

Harry sighed tiredly and rubbed his forehead. “Nothing.”

“Oh no,” said Hermione, sympathetically.

“Bastard,” Ron hissed. “So what are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to Malfoy Manor,” said Harry, avoiding their eyes and reading the parchment.

“But …” Hermione shook her head confusedly. “Why? And what’s that you’ve got?”

“They’re directions. And we’re going to Malfoy Manor because Lucius won’t tell us anything unless we do something for him,” Harry said quietly, still not looking them in the eye.

“Like what?” Ron asked, the horror evident in his eyes.

Harry finally looked up at them and shook his head in amazement. “You are not going to believe this.”

**(())**

Draco stood in front of his bathroom mirror. He couldn’t look into his own eyes, scared of what he’d see - or rather what he wouldn’t see. Nothingness. So instead his gaze ran over the reflection of the fading bruises littering his arms and chest – the remaining vestiges of the Cruciatius Curse. As Draco studied the purple and yellow patterns on his body, he wished he could crawl back into bed. He hadn’t left it since the first culling, despite his mother’s attempts to get him out. He had been planning his death. How he was going to do it. He had tried to perform the Avada Kedavra Curse on himself, but his wand hadn’t worked. In fact no spell he tried worked. It was like his magic-battery had run out. 

Draco knew what was happening. He’d read about it before. Severe depression often led to a loss of magic in wizards. This information, for Draco, only provided an excuse. An excuse for the lack of effort. For the lack of life.

But today, and just for today, Draco decided to put the effort in one last time. Today was his father’s forty-sixth birthday. No matter what else he felt for his father - anger and betrayal being the most prominent feelings – he could not help but care. 

The feeling reminded him of something Theodore Knott had once said to him about Pansy Parkinson’s brother being killed in sixth year. Draco mentally rolled his eyes. It seemed that any sort of reflection he had had lately usually involved something Theodore had said to him. He remembered the conversation clearly.

“We should do something for Pansy,” Theodore had said. 

Draco snorted. “Why? Craven knew what he was getting into – we all do. We’re just not all that stupid.” This comment caused malicious laughter around the Slytherin table. 

Craven was killed by an Auror trying to steal muggle children from an orphanage. He was not the only one involved, but he was convinced by Bellatrix to take the blame when the Aurors had appeared. The others apparated away and the mess was left to him. When the Aurors told him he would be sent to Azkaban, he had tried to put up a fight. He came off second best.

Theodore stood suddenly, an angry scowl on his face. Everyone stopped laughing and looked at him intently. Theodore spoke to Draco quietly so that the others could not hear. “I do not know what’s happened to you. I never thought that you would be …” He shook his head, not finishing his sentence. He made to leave but Draco grabbed his arm.

“You didn’t even know Craven, why do you care?” Draco asked scornfully.

“I cannot help it. It’s called being human.” 

That was the last time Theodore spoke to Draco. After that conversation, he refused to even acknowledge him and two weeks later he had disappeared, several other Slytherins in tow.

And today, finally, Draco understood Theodore’s words. So Draco got out of bed and he had a shower and he washed his hair and he put some clothes on and he walked down those lifeless corridors of the Manor.

He stood outside the dining room’s doors, making sure his disdainful mask was secure before entering. He let out a small gasp of surprise. His mother was not alone. There, in his father’s usual chair, sat his Aunt Fiona. Draco smiled and enormous wave of relief and grief suddenly washed over him and he felt like crying. But of course, he did not. He was glad though, that he would get to see her one last time.

Fiona Malfoy, fifteen years her brother’s junior, had not been to Malfoy Manor since Draco’s fifteenth birthday over two years ago. She had changed very little in appearance since that time. She had the trademark straight, pale blonde hair of a Malfoy and the same wide grey eyes. She looked much like her brother, but she did not sport a traditional Malfoy smirk, or even an elegant smile, but more of small goofy grin. It lightened her whole face.

Fiona was the black sheep of the family. She was considered far too … _neutral_ … to be altogether accepted. Lucius tolerated her only because she was a Malfoy and was yet to marry, so she could not be disowned for that. She was also a senior member of the French Ministry of Magic, made possible as Lucius and Fiona’s mother was French. Draco’s mother particularly despised her. Draco adored her.

“Well don’t just stand there Drake, give us a hug.” Aunt Fiona stood up and held her arms out. Draco nearly tripped over himself as he ran into her embrace. 

“You’ve gotten so tall,” she commented as Draco squeezed her tight, breathing in her familiar smell. She’d worn the same perfume for as long as Draco could remember - a smooth, vanilla scent.

“Does the extensive hugging mean you missed me, Drake?” Draco smiled into her neck. She was the only one who had ever given him a nickname, and in truth, if anyone else had tried to call him ‘Drake’, he’d probably hex them. But he loved the affection behind it.

“Well,” Narcissa interrupted. “Let’s have breakfast then.” Her lips were pursed and she had an obvious crease in her brow. 

Narcissa had forever been jealous of Fiona’s easy way with Draco. They got on extremely well and Draco would tell her things he wouldn’t even think about in front of his mother. It was the main reason behind Narcissa’s hatefulness towards Fiona. But Draco wished his mother understood, that at the end of the day, despite everything else, she was still his mother and he loved her and nothing could change that. After all, he was only human. He could not help it.

Draco stepped away and sat in his normal chair opposite his mother, sporting a little smile. 

Aunt Fiona immediately began piling her plate full of bacon and eggs, ignoring anything that could be remotely good for her. 

“So you are still on a mission to block your arteries then?” observed Narcissa, rather coldly Draco thought.

“Yes. Hence why I had more money put into Clemenceau Memorial instead of the French Quidditch League,” Fiona gave her goofy grin to Draco. “They’ll have a cure or something soon enough.”

Narcissa seethed like she always did when Aunt Fiona brought up her status in the French Ministry. “Ah yes, your promotion to Treasurer,” Narcissa drawled nastily, sipping her pumpkin juice like it was a fine wine. “And who did you have to copulate with to get _that_ job.” 

“Mother!” Draco shot her a disgusted look. Aunt Fiona looked not the least bit deterred, “Vice Minister, Jean Pierre-Vitaire,” she replied easily, and then for good measure, “he was _fabulous_.”

Draco held back a snort and Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “So you are involved with this man then?”

Aunt Fiona sniffed. “He’s a fascist. He’s trying to cut us off from England. Thinks we’ll be the Dark Lord’s next stop when he’s done here.”

“We can only hope,” said Narcissa carefully, “that he would see fit to right the wrongs in France after curing Britain. Right, Draco?”

“Yes,” he said, robotically. “We can only hope.”

Aunt Fiona rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Have you gone to see Lucius?”

“They won’t let us,” answered Draco. “Because they know that … well that I …”

“That you’re in with the Big Bad?” Aunt Fiona said nonchalantly. Draco nodded his head. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected. I’ll see if I can pull some strings for you.”

“And where do you stand Fiona, in this difficult time?” asked Narcissa, her frown returning and ignoring the offer. “You were never clear about it.”

“Where do I stand? Why right here next to Drake, right darling?” Aunt Fiona grinned at Draco and he smiled back.

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed to slits at this answer. “I am looking after Draco just fine thank you. I’m sure the Dark Lord could use your assistance in other ways, why do you not offer to help?”

This was a common train of conversation when Aunt Fiona was present. She was an extremely talented witch with many connections. Her service would not be shunned by the Dark Lord, should it be offered. 

Draco never had understood why Fiona denied the Dark Lord. Draco knew that she had no sympathy for Mudbloods and muggles. Besides which, she detested stupid people - which more than eighty percent of the population was, in her opinion. It made no sense to him.

“He’s got plenty of people helping Narcissa, I assure you,” answered Aunt Fiona, the first sign of annoyance showing. She took a large swig of her orange juice.

Narcissa put her hands either side of her plate. She slowly clenched the table cloth. “Perhaps,” she began, her anger evident, “you are still suffering from the influence of that traitor, Regulus Black? Lucius has told me many times how absolutely _crushed_ you were at his death.”

“Are you going to bring him up every time I come here or just on special occasions?” said Aunt Fiona. Her words were flippant but there was an unmistakable warning in her voice. 

Draco wished his mother would leave her alone. Despite Narcissa’s earlier heckling, Fiona was not the Treasurer of the French Ministry for nothing.

“This is stressful time for us-” Narcissa started.

“That is why I am here,” interrupted Fiona with some authority. “And I would appreciate you leaving the personal attacks for a more suitable time.”

“I’m not scared of you,” announced Narcissa.

Fiona tilted her head wearing an expression that clearly said, ‘you should be’. Fiona turned away from Narcissa. “I heard about what happened at Hogwarts,” she said, staring down Draco. He did not meet her eyes and the sudden lightness he’d felt at her arrival instantly vanished. This was not something he wanted to discuss. “They told me you were meant to kill Dumbledore, but you couldn’t do it.”

“Leave him alone!” Narcissa rose from the table, irate. “It was a child’s weakness, he will not fail again! I wish you would all leave him alone!” 

Fiona raised her eyebrows and Narcissa stalked out of the dining hall, so angry that it looked as though she might cry. She slammed the door loudly behind her. Draco quickly rose to leave the table too, afraid of being alone with his aunt, afraid of what she’d ask him.

As Draco reached the door, Fiona called his name. He turned, still not looking her in the eye.

“She is wrong, your mother.”

“What?” Draco asked, confused and a little scared. 

“She is wrong about you,” said Aunt Fiona, softly. “It is not weakness. It is not weakness to value life.” Draco finally looked her in the eyes. “Especially a life other than your own.” 

Draco leaned against the door. “No. She is right, I was just scared. I was shit scared.”

Fiona shook her head. “Everyone is capable of killing another, given the right circumstances. But you can never be scared of the act, just the consequences. What would be worse? You and your parents dying, but that old man going on to live and save many lives? Or you killing him, saving yourself and your parents, but no one else?”

“ _I was scared_ ,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “I have no idea what you are crapping on about.”

“No, there’s more to it. I know it. I know you.”

“Do you?” asked Draco, his voice full of spite.

“Yes, I do.” She looked at him with patient eyes, trying to make him understand. “Let’s try this from a different angle then. Tell me, what are you more afraid of? Losing your parents and being alone, or killing an old man?” 

Draco crossed his arms, trying very hard to keep his composure. He began tapping his fists against the door, a pained frown on his face. “The former, I guess.”

“So then why didn’t you kill Dumbledore? You knew what the consequences would be. That was what you were scared of, right?”

Draco froze up and looked down at his feet. He could not and would not answer that. Not after what Bellatrix had done.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Draco. The only side I am on is yours.”

Draco started. She had said this to him before. When he was six years old and he broke his father’s prized racing broomstick that was signed by Thea Gill, the greatest seeker to ever come out of England. He had refused to admit his guilt to anyone. Fiona had been staying with them at the time. She had convinced him to come forward and swore she would stand by him as he told his father, “The only side I am on is yours”, she’d said.

Then when he was nine and he stole three wands from Ollivander’s because his father refused to give him one until he was ready to go to Hogwarts. Then when he was eleven and he had stomped up and down the halls for days, screaming and breaking things because his father was going to send him to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts, even though Narcissa hadn’t wanted him too. Aunt Fiona had come and convinced Lucius to let Draco go to Hogwarts. “The only side I am on is Draco’s”, she had told his father as Draco listened through the study door.

But could she really help him now? He didn’t even know what he wanted. Just that he didn’t want this. _But then_ , he resolved, _I am ending it all very soon. So what does it matter?_

He looked up at her, his eyes full of tears. “Because I don’t want to be a murderer. It isn’t right.”

She smiled at him. “No, it isn’t, is it?” She rose from her seat. “You don’t have to worry anymore. I’m not leaving here until everything is sorted out. We’ll just take it one day at a time, alright?”

Draco slowly nodded, refusing to lose his composure. Then suddenly, something occurred to him. “Are you with the Order of the Phoenix,” he asked suspiciously.

Aunt Fiona snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Then why … why are you …?”

“Not in with the Big Bad?” 

Draco nodded his head. “Yeah, I mean, they’ve been trying since he came back. Trying to get you to join. Mother told me.”

“Just because I don’t agree with Dumbledore, doesn’t mean I agree with the Dark Lord.” Fiona walked over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “It’s okay to feel like that.”

Draco nodded his head again and suddenly, a bit of that dread that had been crushing him lifted off him just a little bit. Just enough to let the hope back in. 

“Come here, I have something for you.” Aunt Fiona led him out of the dining room and into the main entrance where her luggage stood. She rummaged through it, swearing and throwing shirts and robes and knickers out as she searched. “Oh, here we go.” 

She pulled out a scrunched up beach towel and handed it to him.

“Erm, thanks?” Draco said uncertainly.

Fiona scrunched her face up. “Unwrap the towel, you idiot.”

“Oh, right.” Draco pulled the towel apart and let it fall to the ground. In his hands lay a gleaming, golden horse. It was as long as his hand, from index finger to wrist, and proportionally thick. It looked magnificent.

“Thanks, Aunty Fee!” Draco said, holding it up to get a better look. “Where did you get this?”

“An old friend,” she replied. “Well, I better take my luggage up, but you come see me soon so we can have a chat, alright?”

Draco nodded his head as he walked down the hall towards the stairs. He held the golden horse in both hands, looking at it in amazement. He loved horses, but this seemed to be even more than that. Once again he felt a wave of gratitude at Aunt Fiona’s timely appearance.

Draco reached the foot of the stairs when he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps. More than one set. He slipped the horse into his large robe pocket and listened carefully, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up. There was no sound for a moment and Draco began to calm down, deciding it must be noisy house-elf when he heard the unmistakable sound of a male’s voice. Draco breath caught in his throat and he instinctively pulled out his wand, forgetting that it was most likely no good to him. 

He slowly walked into the adjacent hall to the stairs. Again he heard the voice, and this time he could make out some of the words.

“… freaking huge … it’s not natural, a place like this … ew, look at that-” 

And then another voice, “Shut up, you idiot!”

Draco peeped his head around the corner, but he could see no one. He entered the hall, peering up and down, nothing was there and the voices had stopped. Draco shook his head, about to decide he really must be losing his mind when suddenly a wand popped out of then air.

_“Stupefy!”_ Draco had a moment to think that the voice seemed vaguely familiar until he fell to the ground, unconscious. 

... to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Thanks, once again, to my fantabulous beta, Kristin (a.k.a. **AbundantFear** ).

**raining_slash**


	6. Interrogating the Dead

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“Necessity never made a good bargain.” – Benjamin Franklin_

Chapter Six: Interrogating The Dead

Harry stood back by the door as Hermione lowered the lifeless form onto the kitchen table. She waved her hands in front of the face. A face Harry thought he knew well. She clicked her fingers and there was no reaction. “He’s still out of it. You might’ve been a bit enthusiastic with the stunning spell, Harry.”

Harry did not answer her. He remained by the door, the shadows covering most of his form. He felt very surreal. The idea of Draco Malfoy in his aunt and uncle’s house, comatose and possibly not as unpleasant as everybody thought, was very surreal.

“We should bind him or something,” Ron said, a crease in his brow and his hands on his hips in thought. “I reckon I’d try and make a run for it if I were him.” Ron scrunched up his face. “Thank Merlin I’m not.”

Harry watched his best friend hover over Malfoy. Ron would be the least co-operative about what Harry was going to do. Harry was changing Lucius’ plan and Ron wasn’t going to like what that meant. Either would Hermione, but her habit of over rationalising would overcome her hatred … and maybe even her hurt.

“Good idea,” said Hermione. She pulled out her wand and flicked it about. Coils of thin, red rope began wrapping themselves tightly around the unconscious boy’s wrists, waist and ankles. He wasn’t going anywhere. 

Harry noticed how slim the boy was. Slimmer than Harry ever remembered. When they were younger Harry had been shorter than Malfoy, but he’d also been heavier. He would be the same height as Malfoy now. And significantly heavier. 

“Get his wand, Ron.” Hermione stood back surveying her work. 

Hermione would’ve tried to talk Harry out of it if he’d told her his plan. And Harry’s faith in his forthcoming actions was not entirely fixed. He would’ve been easily persuaded.

Ron grumbled and pulled the buttons of the boy’s robes apart, searching for the wand. The buttons popped out but Ron didn’t seem to care. “Here it is. And there’s something in the pocket as well.” Ron yanked and there was the sound of silk ripping. “What’s that?”

Hermione shrugged as Ron threw the wand to Harry and handed her a gold ornament. “I’m not sure what it is,” she said. “We better hold on to it.”

She tucked the ornament away and stepped further away from the table. There was silence for a few seconds, but for the sound of their heavy breathing. Harry took a moment to let the last hour’s events settle in.

They had run out of Malfoy Manor at a sprint, Hermione keeping an unconscious, hovering Draco Malfoy in the air. They had not worried about hiding themselves with the Invisibility Cloak, and just tried to make a run for it through the cellar and on to the underground passage that lead into a small cave whose entrance was at the beach of Brighton. It was the route that Lucius had told Harry about. 

They had met trouble. Before they’d reached the end of the property they’d been stopped by a tall, blonde headed woman who’d popped out of nowhere. Harry was sure they’d been caught and the whole thing was over. The woman had not appeared evil; but all the same, the look in her grey eyes indicated a great power. The woman, however, took one look at Harry, and then had disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared. It had been extremely strange. Rather than wonder at whom that had been and risk being caught again, they’d continued their escape. 

Once they’d reached the end of the cave, they’d met more trouble. The beach was surrounded by muggles and there were teenagers at the mouth of the cave, torturing a washed-up jellyfish. 

They could’ve stunned them, but it would’ve attracted Ministry attention – magic on muggles always did. Hermione had levitated Malfoy into Harry’s arms. “Just pretend we were drinking or something. He passed out. Look tired but happy.” 

Harry had shifted Malfoy’s weight uncomfortably in his arms. “Whatever, let’s just be quick about it. He’s not as light as he looks.”

“I don’t like this …” Ron had said for about the fiftieth time since going into Malfoy Manor. 

They’d walked as casually as they could out of the cave. The young muggles had turned to them. They’d continued walking, not making eye contact.

“Did ‘e fall or sumfink?” asked a buck-toothed, male youth who had had “Chick Magnet” written across his t-shirt. He motioned to Malfoy. Harry hadn’t met his eye; he watched his footing over the wet rock face instead.

Hermione snorted. “Too many Cruisers,” she’d said in a very gauche accent.

The muggles then visually relaxed. A few laughed. “Better be careful,” another boy with piercings all over his face said. “The Pigs patrol this beach.”

“Pigs?!” Ron had questioned, loudly.

“Yeah,” said Hermione, jumping in quickly. “Is nofink sacred, eh?”

They’d laughed again. 

“Well,” said Hermione as they’d moved off the rocks, “have a good one!”

A couple of them waved good bye, and the others turned back to the jellyfish. Once out of the sand and out of sight, Hermione had hit Ron hard on his arm.

“You idiot!” 

“Well how was I to know muggles use farm animals to patrol beaches?” Ron had said indignantly. Harry couldn’t help laughing at that as he re-levitated Malfoy out of his arms.

“They don’t actually use pigs!” Hermione had said, her frustration evident. “That’s just a nasty word some people use for police officers.” Hermione shook her head in disbelief as Ron’s ears went bright red. “Seriously Ron, how do you get by everyday?”

“Will you shut-up?” said Ron embarrassedly. “How was I to know?”

Harry, having sensed a rather large fight brewing, had quickly interrupted. “Are we apparating out of here or what?”

“Oh,” said Hermione, distracted. “We can’t, what about him?” She’d gestured to Malfoy.

“I can take him,” said Harry. 

Hermione had looked dubious. “Side-a-long apparition-”

“I’ve done it before Hermione, in much more stressful situation.”

“Oh.” Hermione must have understood what Harry was referring to as she had not questioned him further. They had apparated to the Dursley’s kitchen without another word, and now, here they were.

“What do we do now?” Ron asked, looking down at a bounded Malfoy. 

Harry pulled out his own wand. “We question him,” he said, businesslike. He pointed his wand at Malfoy and as soon as the white light hit his chest, the boy’s eyes sprang open instantly. 

Harry stepped out of the light again and watched Malfoy intensely. He looked about frantically, struggling in his binds. “Who’s there, what is this?” he said, in a very uncharacteristically small voice. He looked severely malnourished and had large, black bags under his eyes. He did not look like the young man that had played a crucial role in Dumbledore’s death. He looked lost.

Hermione and Ron walked backwards, obviously worried. Harry waited a moment as Malfoy continued to struggle in his binds, then he stepped forward into Malfoy’s eye line. 

“Hello Malfoy. Remember me?” Malfoy’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as grey met green. His head fell back on the table with a thud. “We need to have a talk.”

**(())**

_THE CHOSEN ONE IS SIGHTED!_

_Harry Potter, our Chosen One, the only one believed to have the power to stop the Dark Lord has been sighted at Azkaban Prison! What was first believed to have been an accident, when the wards surrounding the prison came down, is now believed to have been a direct result of Potter breaking into the great fortress. How he managed this, the warden of Azkaban refuses to divulge, claiming the secrets of Azkaban that keep the occupants on the island, are only secrets “as long as people don’t open their pie-holes and start blabbing to the entire nation about it.” Story continued, page 2._

Narcissa Malfoy watched Severus Snape lower the _Daily Prophet_ , his face a mask of worry. 

“Do you think that has anything to do with it, Severus?” Narcissa wringed her hands on her wet handkerchief. Wet with her own tears. 

“I cannot know for sure,” said Severus. 

Narcissa dropped her head, a new onslaught of tears rained down her face. “This is all my fault.”

“It is not,” said Fiona, firmly. “He may not have been kidnapped, he may have just left. And even if he was kidnapped, do you really think it would be Harry Potter’s doing?” Fiona’s face was full of incredulity. “You are jumping to all the wrong conclusions.”

“I agree,” said Severus, solemnly. “We should not panic. It hasn’t even been a full day.”

“Then where is he?!” Narcissa shrieked. She slammed her fist onto the rickety table in Severus’ dusty kitchen. On discovering her son was not in Malfoy Manor, Narcissa had immediately left her home for Severus Snape’s – hoping to find answers, if not Draco himself.

“Perhaps he has attempted to visit his father? On a whim. It is Lucius’ birthday, after all,” suggested Fiona.

Severus looked thoughtful at this. “Yes, perhaps.”

Narcissa jumped out of her chair. “Then let’s go to the Ministry. Right now.”

Severus nodded his head. “You and Fiona may go.”

Narcissa looked down at Severus pleadingly, “Will you not come also?”

“I will never make it into the Ministry. _You_ are going to need all Fiona’s influence just to get through.”

“Is there another way to Azkaban, other than the Ministry Floo Network?” Narcissa asked.

“There is no other way to get to Azkaban, unless you know the way. I do not. Nor do I know anyone that does,” Severus replied. 

“Very well.” Fiona said, standing up and joining her sister-in-law. “We better get going then. The Ministry will close the fireplace to Azkaban soon.”

“Do not worry too much Narcissa,” said Severus, taking her hand. “Draco will be fine.”

Her was face scrunched up in pain and she said meekly, “I hope you’re right, Severus.”

**(())**

“I’m not saying anything, _Weasel_ , until you untie me.” Malfoy looked stubbornly down after ignoring another onslaught of questions from Ron and Hermione. Malfoy had quickly regained his composure after his initial shock. It almost seemed to Harry, as though Malfoy was glad it was them. Obviously Malfoy feared from within the Death Eaters. Perhaps he had more enemies than Harry thought. 

Harry had said nothing since showing his face to Malfoy at the beginning, and had returned to his place by the door. He was thinking very intently. This was a rather delicate situation and Hermione and Ron weren’t doing so great, thus far.

“It’s not going to happen, Ferret Face,” said Ron, looking highly pent-up. It was getting worse by the second; they were all resorting back to the way they were at Hogwarts. That couldn’t happen if Harry’s plan was to work.

“Obviously,” drawled Malfoy looking a little weary, “the mathematics of this situation are just too much for your rodent mind. I’ll save you the trouble. There are three of you,” said Malfoy, very slowly as though he was talking to someone with down-syndrome, “and just one of me. My chances aren’t great. Not to mention the fact that Hero has my wand.” Malfoy’s face hardened. “Dost thou comprehend?”

Ron looked ready to explode. 

“Do it,” said Harry quietly, from the shadows. 

“What?!” shrieked Ron, indignantly.

“Hermione, get rid of the restraints.” She made to argue but Harry silenced her with a look. She let out a frustrated sigh and then waved her wand. The coils instantly shrunk away, but she kept her wand on Malfoy all the same.

Malfoy sat up gingerly and shook his head. “Well, now that first rule of negotiations has been established,” said Malfoy cracking his neck, “it’s time for the second rule.”

“You don’t make the rules here, Malfoy-” Hermione began.

“Au contraire,” interrupted Malfoy. “I have the information.”

Hermione snorted rudely. “You are so ignorant. Do you honestly think-”

“Hush!” Harry snapped. Hermione looked at him wide-eyed, clearly offended. Harry didn’t mean to upset her, but if they gave away the game too quickly, Harry feared he could not profit from this best. 

“See, Granger,” Malfoy said, with his familiar smirk. “My rules. Second rule: I won’t speak to you, Weasel, or you, Mudblood. You want to know what I know,” said Malfoy, looking directly at Harry, “you can ask me. Not your little sidekicks.”

Ron’s face had gone completely red in anger and Hermione was trying to hold him back. “How … dare … you … call … her … that!”

“Fine.” Harry walked to Ron and grabbed him by the arm and helped Hermione haul him out of the kitchen.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said quietly to them. “Just trust me.”

Hermione and Ron both looked daggers at Harry. “I’m sorry,” he said feebly. He closed the kitchen door.

He took a deep breath and looked to Malfoy - who now had a big smirk on his face - intently in the eye. “Any more rules, Malfoy?”

“Yes, one more.” He slid off the table and pulled up a chair, again shaking his head wearily. “For every question you ask me, I get to ask you one.”

_This again,_ Harry thought. _Like father like son._ “Whatever,” Harry muttered.

“Excellent,” said Malfoy. “Since you’ve been so very co-operative. I’ll let you go first.”

Harry pulled out a chair opposite Malfoy. “When we took you out of the Manor,” Harry began, deciding to ask easy questions to start with. “A woman came upon us. Who was she?”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows mockingly. “A woman? That’s all I’ve got to go on? I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific, being that I’m not clairvoyant and all.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, I suppose she was like you … a Malfoy. She had long blonde hair, grey eyes, she was pretty slim and tall, she looked fairly young, she-”

“Fiona.” Malfoy said, without emotion.

“Who is she?”

“My father’s sister.” Malfoy crossed his arms. “It must have taken a bit out of you fighting her off.”

Now Harry raised his eyebrows. “She let us go. We thought she was going to fight us, then she saw who it was, and just … left.” Harry shrugged his shoulders.

Malfoy’s face went completely blank, a good sign that he was currently experiencing many emotions. He looked away for a moment, then turned back to Harry. “Right. Well, my turn, why did you choose me to question? Out of all the Dark Lord’s servants.”

Harry considered his answer. He wanted to be as truthful as possible without giving anything away. He sighed. “I didn’t bring you here to question you. I just decided to when you assumed that’s what we wanted,” said Harry.

Malfoy’s face looked a little shocked. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“It’s not your turn Malfoy. My second question is, why did you want to kill Dumbledore?”

Malfoy’s face went ashen. “Did you bring me here to kill me? For revenge?”

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”

“I don’t want to answer.” He crossed his arms, his face full of suspicion. Harry saw in that moment as Malfoy’s façade dropped, what his weakness had become under Voldemort’s tutelage … fear. All Harry had to do was invoke it, and Malfoy would comply. Harry pushed from his mind what Malfoy would have gone through to get to that position. There was more at stake that just him and this old enemy.

“Then I don’t want to answer yours, in which case, our questioning is over and Hermione can tie you back up again.” Harry turned to call for Hermione.

“No don’t …” Malfoy said, in a voice that sounded faintly like a plea. Harry turned to him, trying to decipher his companion. He could see Malfoy’s fear turn to frustration. “Christ Potter, fuck you! Fine. The answer is; I wanted to kill him because the Dark Lord wanted me to kill him and if I didn’t, he’d kill me and my family. That’s why!” Malfoy was rattled. He began to rant nervously. “It was me dead or him dead and excuse me for not wanting to die! Or to be the reason my parents died.”

Harry looked away. “Okay then,” said Harry. “What’s your question?”

“Did you bring me here to kill me?” he asked quickly.

“No, I did not.” Harry remained calm as Malfoy began to fidget nervously. He was mentally unstable. One minute his usual self-absorbed-in-control self, the next … obviously broken.

“Well are you going to kill me?” Malfoy asked, wringing his hands and bouncing his knee.

“Not your turn Malfoy,” replied Harry. “Do you want to be a Death Eater?”

Malfoy snorted nervously. “What kind of question is that?”

“Answer it,” said Harry, shortly.

Malfoy tapped his fingers nervously on his chin. Harry couldn’t help but be thankful for Malfoy’s mentally worn state. It didn’t seem to be occurring to Malfoy to lie. “Yes, I wanted to be a Death Eater.”

Harry sighed patiently. “Yes, you _wanted_ to. But what about now?”

“Now ... ?” Malfoy instantly stopped moving, his face was clearly lost in a memory. “I want to fly.”

“Fly?” Harry asked quietly. _What the hell is wrong with him?_ thought Harry.

Malfoy’s face suddenly changed, he became animated. Harry recognized the look. It was how he’d spoken to his friends at Hogwarts. “In fifth year, when Dumbledore had gone missing and stuff, Theodore and Vincent and Greg and I, we snuck out one night,” Malfoy was wide-eyed and he had a small smile on his face. He wasn’t just mentally worn out, he was delusional. “We wanted to go flying, all of us. But Theo doesn’t have a broom. So Greg said, “Let’s try and steal Potter’s!” and we went down to the dungeon and we saw the dwarves that were guarding it,” Harry frowned, he loved that broom. “We showed them our Inquisitorial Squad badges and Theo did some fast talking and we got it!” Malfoy leant forward with a welcoming expression on his face. Malfoy had never spoken to him in such a friendly way before. He was finding Malfoy’s smile infectious. So much so, that he almost forgot that Malfoy was telling him a story about a bunch of Slytherins desecrating his beloved Firebolt.

“So anyway,” Malfoy continued. “We snuck out to the Quidditch Pitch, and we had the best luck. We ran into no one, not even that stupid cat! So we gave the Firebolt to Theo and he tried to get on it, but it bucked him right off.” Harry couldn’t help but feel pleased about that. “So he tried again, and again and again. And it kicked him off every time, each time he gets bucked a little further than before. So finally, he gave up. We thought it was probably because he wasn’t gripping it right or something. I mean, Theo had only flied a couple of times and the Firebolt’s a pretty specialized broom. So he swapped brooms with Greg.” Harry couldn’t help but groan at the thought of the massive Goyle atop his broom. “Greg’s been flying all his life. He isn’t very fast or anything, but he has better technique than anyone I’ve met. But that fucking broom bucked him off as well.” Malfoy started laughing. “It was so funny. I mean, Greg’s fairly huge,” Harry thought that was an understatement, “and to see him flying off it over and over again. So Greg gives the broom to Vincent,” Harry groaned again, “and the same thing happened, equally as funny. Until finally the others were like, “Draco, you’ll have to try” and can I just say that I’ve never been so scared of flying in my life,” Malfoy laughed again. “I mean, I bruise really easily. But anyway, I take the broom and I lace myself with as many padding spells as I can, and easy as you like the broom let me on.” Malfoy smiled at Harry like he was a friend. “It was the best! I loved that broom. I didn’t even have to move it most of the time, it was just … so smooth. And we flew for hours. All over the lake and the forest. We didn’t talk about anything. We just flew. That broom was my freedom.” Malfoy looked away; the cheer left his face and was replaced with a kind of bittersweetness. “That was the best night. Afterwards, the others wanted to destroy the Firebolt, but I couldn’t do it. The others didn’t understand.” Malfoy looked at Harry carefully. “That was the first time I admitted to being jealous of something you had, that I wanted.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He felt like he should be angry, but he wanted to help Malfoy. Getting angry at him wouldn’t help.

“I wish I could fly that broom one more time before …” Malfoy trailed away softly.

“Before what?” Harry asked.

“Before I die.”

Harry stiffened. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“I know,” Malfoy said quietly.

“Then who is?”

Malfoy let out a small laugh. He looked very weak. Harry understood. He was going to kill himself.

“When did you last eat, Malfoy?” Harry asked suspiciously, eyeing Malfoy carefully.

“I went to breakfast,” he replied. “But I couldn’t eat. It would’ve reversed everything.”

“You’re starving yourself,” Harry said quietly. Harry shook his head in shock, “Hermione!” he shouted. 

Hermione instantly stormed in with her wand out, Ron followed. “What’s he doing?”

“Nothing,” Harry replied, standing up. “He’s delusional. He hasn’t eaten or, I imagine, drunk anything. He’s trying to kill himself,” Harry said, his disbelief evident.

With the other two present, Malfoy regained some of his normalcy. “What do you care if I die?”

“Make him something to eat; I’ll get him a drink.” Harry pushed Hermione to the fridge. 

“We can’t _make_ him eat,” Ron said darkly. 

Malfoy nodded his head in agreement. “No, you can’t.”

“We can’t make him eat,” said Harry. “But we can give him a reason to live.”

**(())**

Draco shook his head wearily. He kept trying to focus his mind, but it wouldn’t. Old memories kept popping into his head. And Potter kept asking him questions while the Mudlbood bustled around in the kitchen. It was tiring him out. 

“Do you want to know why we brought you here?” Potter asked, not unkindly. Draco was thankful for that. He decided Potter wasn’t too bad when he didn’t have an annoyed crease in his forehead. 

“We brought you here,” Potter said, “because Lucius asked me to.”

Draco looked up at that. Surely it was lie? “You’re lying.” Draco listened to the words come out of his mouth. It seemed to echo in his head. “You brought me here to get information about the Dark Lord.”

“No, that’s not why,” said Harry. “Lucius wants you safe. He wants you to live.”

“Why does he want that?” Draco asked. He looked intently at Potter. The piercing green of his eyes kept him focused.

“Because you’re his son.” 

Draco shook his head again, like trying to shake a cat out of a tree. “What did you do to me, Potter? I wasn’t this tired before.”

“I think … when I stunned you, it wore your body out. You’re crashing quickly.”

“It would be you, wouldn’t it? It’s always you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Potter. “I want you to live.”

Draco let out a weary laugh and flopped his head back. “Now I definitely don’t want to.”

“What about your father?” The Mudblood put something on the table next to him. A sandwich and orange juice. 

“What about him?” Malfoy asked. Looking away from the food.

“He’s giving up everything to save you. And you would repay him like this,” Potter said in disapproval. “Do you want to hurt him?”

_No,_ Draco thought. _Not him. I don’t want to hurt him._

“Live. Don’t be a casualty of this war.”

Draco felt a tear drop from his eye and fall down his cheek. “I will be anyway.”

“No, you won’t,” Potter said fiercely. “I will protect you.”

Draco looked into Potter’s eyes, trying to find the lie. It wasn’t there. Draco wanted to live. But he didn’t want pain. Could Potter give him life without pain?

Draco looked down at the sandwich. Tomato and cheese. He didn’t like cheese unless it was melted. He told Granger so. Potter smiled and she took the sandwich away and pulled a frying pan out.

The next hour was nothing but a blur to Draco. He would not remember most of it later. He would not remember how long it took him to drink his juice or eat his sandwich. He vaguely remembered Potter telling the other two they had to leave this house they were in. Where his aunt and uncle lived. Where Potter was brought up. Muggles were coming soon. 

He only remembered being hoisted into the hall by Potter, and aptly fainting when he recognized the house. When he realized the woman he’d killed, was Harry Potter’s aunt.

**(())**

“Is he asleep?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Yeah,” said Harry closing the door that separated the bedroom from the rest of the hotel room. “He’ll be out of it for a while. He’ll need to eat and drink again when he wakes up.”

Hermione nodded her head. “What do you think happened to him? Why did he want to kill himself?”

Harry shook his head. “I guess it all just became too much for him.”

“He killed someone.” Ron sat atop the kitchen bench, Malfoy’s golden statue in one hand, James’ diary in the other. He didn’t look either of them in the eye. “The guilt’s killing him.”

“How do you know that?” Hermione asked.

“I just do … it’s a feeling,” Ron looked up from the diary. “He was probably there, in your neighborhood, Harry. He probably killed one of those muggles.” 

Harry shook his in disagreement, confidently. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t kill someone. I know him.”

“Do you?” Ron asked, skeptically. He’d been very quiet since they’d booked into the hotel. “When are we taking him to his father?”

Harry looked away and slouched into the sofa. “We’re not.”

“What?” Hermione cracked her neck as she twisted to look at him. Ron did not look surprised.

“If we take him back to Lucius,” said Harry, “he’ll just go back to the way he was. We can help him. Help him be better. And he can help us in turn.”

Ron shook his head. 

“Please Ron; I need you to back me up on this. I need your support,” Harry pleaded.

“I’m just going to say one thing and one thing only. And then I’m finished with it and you’ll have my support.” Ron sighed and looked at Harry with scrutiny. “Malfoy is more than we can handle. There are years and years of hatred, ignorance and arrogance in him. I don’t think he’s as bad as his father, but he’s still capable of some pretty shocking things. And this will end badly. You can’t _save_ him, Harry. Wolves have white fur as well as lambs. So just be careful.”

Harry looked at his friend. He heeded the warning. But he would not act on it. And Ron and Hermione both knew he wouldn’t.

Ron sighed and then slid off the kitchen bench. “I think Malfoy’s statue is a horcrux.”

“What?!” Hermione spluttered for a second time. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I wanted to be sure,” said Ron. He handed the statue to Harry and the diary to Hermione.

“Gryffindor’s horse …” said Harry quietly. He ran his fingers along the smooth statue, stopping at the thick mane.

“That’s my theory,” said Ron.

“How did Malfoy get it?” Hermione asked.

“We’ll have to ask him when he wakes up,” said Harry. 

Ron looked at Harry and Hermione expectantly. “So are we going to do it? It should work the same as the Cup, right?”

“Well, yes,” said Hermione. 

Harry stood next to Ron and pulled out his wand. He placed the statue on the coffee table opposite Hermione. “You’re up first, Hermione.”

Hermione gave a small smile. “Wish me luck …”

... to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** I realize this chapter is beyond late. I’m sorry about that and be assured I have a good excuse. But I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m saving it for when I’m old enough and wealthy enough to afford a psychoanalyst.   
Thank you to my darling beta, Kristin (a.k.a. **AbundantFear** ).

**raining_slash**


	7. Enter Friend, Exit Foe

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“Always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them so much.” – Oscar Wilde_

Chapter Seven: Enter Friend, Exit Foe

Ginny Weasley sat across from Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. They did not talk, they simply watched the fields whiz past as the Hogwarts Express ran its annual route to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The occasional cow could be seen, or a muggle a fair way off in the distance on a tractor. Otherwise, there was no life, in or outside the train. No students running up and down the carriage, no sweet-trolley lady selling Pumpkin Pasties and Chocolate Frogs. There was nothing.

Fifty-seven. That’s how many students had returned. There were no first years - that meant no sorting. There were no Slytherins, and only five Gryffindors - that meant no Quidditch. Neville was Head Boy, Mandy Brocklehurst, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, was Head Girl. Ginny was the only female sixth-year and she had the most ominous feeling about this year at Hogwarts. 

“Do you know anything, Ginny?” Neville asked, breaking through the silence. “About Harry and Ron and Hermione, I mean.”

Neville, now at seventeen, had reached the peak of his adolescence. He was becoming a man. He was no longer rosy cheeked and filled with innocence. The world would not allow that. He, like so many others, had no childhood left. His despair never left his eyes.

“Nothing,” Ginny said, shortly, not meeting Neville’s eyes. She instead focused her attention on the flock of seagulls, flying over head and heading for the coast.

“So you don’t even know if they’re together?” Luna asked, her big blue eyes wide with concern. She too had grown much over the summer, both physically and in mind. She held no copy of _The Quibbler_ in her hand, had no barely believable theories or stories to tell, and her wand was no longer tucked behind her ear. She clenched it in her right hand.

“Well, I guess they’re together … look I really don’t know,” Ginny snapped. “They didn’t say anything to me, they just left.”

Ginny had been incensed when Harry, Ron and Hermione had suddenly disappeared. She knew immediately that they had gone to execute some plan of Harry’s, but she was hurt that Harry had lied to her about taking Ron and Hermione when he’d so adamantly said that he wouldn’t. Why could he trust them, and not her? Why didn’t he want her around? 

“Sorry,” Luna said quietly. “It must be upsetting for you. Your boyfriend, your brother and your best-friend just disappearing like that.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Neville whispered. “We just want to know. They’re our friends.”

Ginny sighed, regretfully. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Of course you want to know about them.” She finally met their eyes with an apologetic smile. “I’ve just been really stressed out. I’ve been snapping at everyone.”

“I know what you mean,” Neville said. “I’ve been throwing up every morning and … I can’t believe I just admitted that.” 

Neville laughed uncomfortably but Ginny smiled. “Don’t be embarrassed. So have I.”

“And I haven’t had my period in three months,” Luna exclaimed. Neville blanched and Ginny laughed out loud, the somber mood inside the cabin was broken for a moment and the other two smiled too.

“Yeah,” Ginny said, still giggling. “I’ve missed one too.”

“It’s not fair,” Luna said suddenly. “We’re only kids. We shouldn’t be going through this. We’re _kids_ , and we know it’s wrong. Why don’t they know better?”

Ginny looked away from them again. “I don’t know,” said Ginny. “I think some people are just born bad.” Neville nodded his head in agreement.

“So what do we do,” Luna asked, “those of us that are left at Hogwarts?”

Ginny sighed. She would always remember how wonderful it was to be at Hogwarts, surrounded by her brothers and friends and Harry. She would always remember her first flying lesson, the first time she made a perfect potion, the first time she turned a hamster into a pin cushion, her first Quidditch match, the first time Harry kissed her. It would all stay with her forever, though she knew none of it was ever to be again. 

“We put Dumbledore’s Army back together,” said Ginny, firmly. She did not forget Harry’s request of her to re-forge the DA. “We make sure we’re ready. That we can fight.”

“Yeah,” said Neville, looking out the window as the sun began to drop below the hills. “We fight.”

**(())**

“Do you know who I am?” Fiona Malfoy asked, her hands on her hips and her face full of challenge.

The Ministry Guard’s lower lip trembled slightly. “Ye-yes, ma’am,” he quivered out. “But I can’t let _her_ in.” He gestured to Narcissa, standing behind Fiona in the Ministry Floo Hall, outside the fireplace to Azkaban Prison. The Floo Hall was made of rich oak and more than a hundred fireplaces graced the walls of this grand hall. Each fireplace had its own personal guard and for the first time, Fiona was glad for the war. It meant that all competent security had been re-located to the Auror Office. It made this task much easier.

“Do you really think,” said Fiona, moving closer to the sandy-haired young guard and standing over him in a very intimidating way, “that I would bring Mrs. Malfoy here, if I honestly thought she was in any way a threat to the security of Azkaban.”

“Well I-”

“And is it fair,” Fiona continued, “for Mrs. Malfoy to be persecuted for the actions of her spouse? After all, she is not Lucius Malfoy, she just married him.”

“Not just _his_ actions. Their boy’s meant to be a piece of work too,” the guard said, very foolishly.

Fiona narrowed her eyes dangerously. “You are walking on a very thin rope,” she said quietly, “I suggest you step aside or I’ll have you fired. And you know I will.”

The guard looked hesitant for a moment; debating with himself about how likely it was that she could actually have him fired. She may have been a senior minister, but not in this country. He must have decided the risk was too great though, as he slowly stepped aside.

“Thank you,” Fiona said, sounding anything but. She stepped into the fireplace, taking a handful of Floo Powder with her. Narcissa followed behind, giving the guard a malevolent glare. Once both inside, Fiona cast down the ashes and a huge green flame engulfed them.

Fiona watched intently as fireplaces whizzed around her, she kept her mouth closed and did not breathe, lest she swallow a mouthful of ash.

At last the whirling stopped, and she and her companion landed expertly on their feet in a black stone fireplace. They stepped out of the fireplace and Fiona shuddered, it was much colder there than in the Ministry. She had never been to Azkaban before. It was an extremely intimidating fortress, surrounded by a mote and situated on a lost island. The fireplace they had flooed to was at the entrance gate – a wooden terror that was protected by more than guards, one of which was bounding over to them.

Fiona looked behind her and was surrounded by the mote’s mossy green water, and then beyond that was a dirty beach and then the ocean. She could see no land beyond.

“G’day,” a chubby corrections officer greeted them. “Officer Quiggins is me name. What can I do fo’ you ladies?”

Fiona gave him the Malfoy glare, just to keep him honest. “I am Madam Malfoy, French Ministry Treasurer. I have come to see my brother, Lucius.”

“Oh, ma’am,” Officer Quiggins bowed in apology. “I didn’ know ‘twas you … ‘cause I don’ know you … but o’ course you may see ‘im.”

“Thank you.” Fiona said, with a short smile.

“But ah … _she_ can’t,” he said, albeit regretfully, to Narcissa. 

“Excuse me?” queried Narcissa, the frustration showing on her face.

Quiggins shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Well you see, the Aurors send us a list o’ people that can’t come in teh the prison. Most nowadays are You-Know-Oo’s people. But there are others too. Those tha’ are suspect’d a’ bad things but there ain’ any proof. You see where I’m goin’?” 

“Are we to assume Narcissa is on this list?” Fiona asked with a sigh.

“You’d assume correct, ma’am. I’m sorry bu’ she ain’ comin’ in.”

“Very well,” Fiona said, defeated.

“What?” Narcissa piped up. “No! Get me in there!”

“I cannot.” Fiona turned to her sister-in-law and said quietly, “This one cannot be negotiated. You must wait here, I will not be long.”

Narcissa huffed and clenched her fists. She turned to the guard furiously. “I need to see my husband this instant! It is my right!”

Quiggins was not the slightest bit intimidated, but he did look very sympathetic. “I’m sorry, missus. It’s not goin’ teh happen.”

“Wait here,” Fiona said firmly. “I promise I will not be long.”

Quiggins called for another officer who came dashing forward. “This is Officer Burke,” said Quiggins. “He’ll be keepin’ an eye on you missus.”

Quiggins motioned for Fiona to follow him into the gates. Narcissa was still fuming, stalking up and down the fireplace, eyeing of Officer Burke angrily. 

Fiona walked through the heavy gates, an ominous feeling writhing through her. Officer Quiggins led her forward, past cell after cell, corridor after corridor. She saw none of the prisoners and didn’t try and peer into the cells. They reached anthor door and Quiggins stopped her.

“We jus’ wen through the minimum security. Tha’ lot are pretty quiet. We’re about teh enter the place were the _really_ bad ‘uns are. This lot ‘ave been getting’ rowdy o’ late. Startin’ teh feel better now the Dementors are gone. Jus’ be careful.”

Quiggins opened the door and a dirty stone stairwell was revealed. Quiggins led the way up about twenty steps and then they reached a landing. Quiggins turned to her and put his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. She nodded her head in understanding.

They walked steadily on, their footsteps muffled by the six inch layer of dirt on the floor. Cells were surrounding Fiona and she looked straight ahead, not wanting to catch anyone’s eyes. Suddenly, an arm flung out at her. She was too far away to be caught, but more arms starting flinging out and the inmates starting screaming and swearing obscenities at her. Quiggins grabbed her arm by the wrist and led her on - the arms still stretching out for her and now she could see the owners of those arms. Hairy, dirty faces, yellow teeth, long dirty finger nails. Some of the men had taken their ragged clothes off and were thrusting at her through the bars of their cells. She looked away and quickly walked on until they were away from the cell block and walking up another flight of stairs. The shouts of the cell mates below could still be clearly heard.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” said Quiggins. Fiona didn’t meet his eyes and kept the steely Malfoy look on her face. “That’s the wors’ bit. Lucius and the rest of ‘em are in a confined area. Surrounded by stone, can’t see yeh.” Fiona nodded her head and said nothing. 

They reached another landing. She was surrounded by grey stone, but for the little wooden doors that led into the little cells. She was colder than ever when Quiggins stopped in front of a stone cell and pulled a large brass key out of his robes. He turned the key but Fiona stopped him from opening the door.

“You can wait outside. I wish to talk to him privately,” said Fiona, her composure restored. 

“Oh now, I dunno-”

“He is wandless and weak, and I assure you he wouldn’t harm me anyway. Please leave us. I am not asking, I am telling.” Quiggins looked hesitant but he nodded his head and stepped a few cells back. Fiona opened the door and was greeted with black and the faint stench of sewerage. It was night in Azkaban, so the little window in the top right hand corner of the cell was made obsolete. 

Fiona lit her wand with a silent thought and jumped back as she found her brother’s face staring directly back at her. “Christ! You scared the shit out of me, Louie!”

Lucius smiled. “Now you, little sister, were not who I was expecting.” Lucius looked positively caveman-like. His hair and face were riddled with dirt and he had massive bags under his eyes. But his voice was as steady as ever and an honest smile took over his face at the sight of his young sister. “What are you doing here, Fiona?”

Fiona waved her wand and the whole room lit up. She sat on a little wooden chair in the corner and motioned for Lucius to sit on the bed opposite. He did so without a word. Fiona got a good look at him. He was scarily thin and there was a strange look in his eyes. Self-pity. But there was something else there as well … resolution. 

“Well the thing is Louie, Draco’s just gone missing,” said Fiona, her voice completely lacking concern, having surmised rather quickly that Lucius was definitely involved. “Narcissa is positive he’s been kidnapped and murdered. But me, I think _you’ve_ had something to do with this.”

Lucius raised his eyebrows. “What could I have possibly done inside my little stone cell, Fee?” His voice sounded innocent but Fiona knew better.

“Your lack of concern for the one person in this world I _know_ you actually care about is telling me enough,” Fiona drawled. “And I saw the Potter boy.” Lucius looked up at this, unable to hide his surprise.

“Imagine my complete shock when I saw Draco being levitated out of the Manor by none other than Harry Potter himself, exiting said Manor via a route that only you and I know of?” 

Lucius narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why didn’t you stop them?”

“The same reason you sent Potter to begin with, I imagine.” Fiona crossed her arms angrily. She and Lucius had never seen eye-to-eye on anything, other than their love for Draco. Fiona dearly hoped that this had not changed.

Lucius glanced away, a strange look on his face. “And why did I send Potter after Draco?” 

“He’s safer with him than with the Dark Lord – especially of late. The Dark Lord’s seething because Draco didn’t want to kill Dumbledore and Narcissa’s beside herself because he confessed to Bellatrix that he was gay.” Fiona rolled her eyes. “Well of course he’s bloody gay. He shops at _Dorian Gray_ and giggles when he sees naked women.” Lucius merely raised his eyebrows at this.

“I take it _you_ knew?” Fiona asked.

“I suspected. It matters little to me what he does in his spare time, as long as an heir is produced.”

“Right,” said Fiona, apprehensively. “What’s your great plan then? Are you going to get Potter to get you out of here so you can go into hiding with Draco? What did you promise Potter in return?”

Lucius smiled mischievously. “Potter is not going to get me out of here, and he’s not going to take Draco into hiding. He’s going to do exactly what he was always going to do, just with Draco by his side.”

“What was Potter always going to do? Do you know what he’s up to?” Fiona laughed in disbelief. “The Dark Lord has all his little minions out, trying to find the boy and find out what he’s up to and all he has to do is ask you.”

Lucius looked away, but couldn’t hide a certain amount of smugness from his face for working out Potter’s plan. “I’m not telling you anything. Just stay out of it. Protect Narcissa and keep her out of it too.”

Fiona shook her head uncertainly. “I won’t turn my back on Draco. I don’t know what you’re up to but if you do anything to hurt Draco-”

Lucius stood up furiously, evidently unable to handle being accused of deliberately causing his son pain. “I am _saving_ him!” He paced up and down in his little cell. “And I’m getting even whilst I’m at it. We should not fear the Dark Lord, my dear Fiona; the Dark Lord should fear us! He is nothing without his Death Eaters and he should have remembered that before-” Lucius cut himself off, breathing heavily in his anger. “Go home and keep Narcissa out of it. And don’t let her visit Severus anymore. I don’t know if he can be trusted.”

“How do you know Sev-”

“Just go, Fee! And don’t let anyone know you came to see me. Go!” 

Fiona stood up and flicked her wand. The lights went out in the cell and she was again plunged into darkness. She heaved a sigh and turned to the door. 

“Whatever you’re planning … well … good luck, Louie.” 

**(())**

Harry marveled at how peaceful Malfoy looked when asleep. He didn’t understand how someone filled with so much hate could look so innocent. Harry thought Malfoy was annoyingly perfect looking, with a soft sheet of porcelain for skin, fine white-blonde hair and perfect teeth.

He stirred in the bed and Harry hoped he was not waking up. That would mean an array of insults and a demand for food and drink. The demanding was starting to annoy Harry, because he knew Malfoy did it only to be unpleasant. Food and drink was always ready for him when he woke. 

Ron and Hermione, after the first two days, steered clear of their new companion. Whenever they were in the same room as him, the verbal attacks became even more vicious. Ron and Hermione wanted to dump Malfoy, or take him home again. But Harry would have none of it. For even though as each day passed, and Malfoy got stronger and was able to remain awake for longer, and he reverted more and more back to his former malevolent self, Harry would catch Malfoy looking at him sometimes, his face full of guilt and sorrow. It was the closest thing Harry was going to get to a cry for help, but it was enough.

“Is he awake?” It was Hermione. She had a tray of orange juice and raspberry jam sandwiches. 

“Not yet, but he will be soon.” Harry yawned in his chair by the bed and stretched his back. 

He had had very little sleep in the last four days, being that Malfoy would not allow Ron or Hermione in his room for longer than five minutes. This made Harry the primary care giver – but the task was wearing thin. Harry had tried to talk to Malfoy about Gryffindor’s golden horse statue, in particular where he had got it from. But Malfoy refused to say where until Harry agreed to say why he cared. There was no way that they were going to tell Malfoy about their Horcrux Hunt without knowing if the Slytherin could be completely trusted, so Malfoy remained stubbornly silent.

On top of this, Malfoy had refused to acknowledge his attempted suicide. Whenever Harry tried to bring it up, Malfoy would tumble out a bucket load of insults. He got similar results if Harry tried to talk about Lucius and his request.

Harry was more resolute than ever that Malfoy should not be returned to Lucius, but the fact of the matter was, they didn’t know what to do with him. He had already detained the trio for four days. And whilst by some strange stroke of luck, Malfoy had delivered a horcrux right into their hands, there was still two horcruxes out there somewhere, and in Ron’s words, “How’s anything to be done when we’re babysitting that evil harpy?”

“I’ll leave the tray on the bedside table,” Hermione said. “Come out here, we have to talk.” Hermione walked over to the bedside table and slid the tray silently on it. She then walked out, holding the door open for him. Harry stood up and followed her out.

Ron was waiting for them on the hotel room sofa. Harry wearily sat on the chair opposite Ron, scratching his eyes. 

“You’re scratching again. You’ve been doing it for the last few days,” Hermione observed, joining Ron on the sofa.

“Yeah, I’m just tired.” Harry said, shaking his head trying to focus his eyes.

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not it. Take off your glasses, Harry.”

Harry frowned confusedly at her, but he took his glasses off and was immediately surprised. He could see quite clearly.

“What- I- I don’t understand?” Harry said, looking down at his glasses.

Hermione sighed. “I suspected before, but I didn’t know for sure.”

“Know what? My God, I can see!” said Harry happily. Hermione and Ron didn’t look happy though. 

“What is it?” asked Harry, casting his glasses aside.

Hermione sighed again. “It’s the Avada Kedavra curse. It’s making you stronger.”

Harry stared at her confusedly. “I don’t understand.”

“Harry,” Hermione said carefully. “Three months ago, you were pretty much as strong as you were going to get, using the kind of magic you’ve been taught. Using white magic. I mean, obviously there was still plenty of spells for you to learn, but strength wise, you were at your peak.” Hermione took a deep breath. “But now, you’ve starting using dark magic … in fact _the_ darkest magic. The killing curse. It’s like you’ve added another few feet to how high you can jump.”

“I see,” said Harry quietly, not sure what to make of this latest development.

“But the thing is, you’ve got be careful.” Ron spoke up now. “’Cause if you’re not careful the dark magic could like … like …”

“Consume you, Harry.” Hermione looked at him seriously. “It could consume you.”

**(())**

Draco had been awake for about ten minutes before Granger walked in and summoned Potter away. He had pretended to be asleep, and once they had left the room Draco had listened carefully to their conversation in his bed, munching quietly on his sandwich.

Draco was in better shape than he was letting on. The first two days at the dumpy muggle hotel were nothing but a blur of Granger’s food, Weasley’s distrusting frown and Potter’s green eyes. But he had woken yesterday - with Potter’s hand on his forehead trying to determine if he had a high temperature - with his mind quite clear. This was not a blessing. Draco instantly began recalling the events that had lead to him being in that bed, in particular, the discovery that the woman he’d killed was Potter’s aunt. His stomach had dropped and he’d been violently sick all over Potter’s muggle jeans. To add salt into his guilt-filled wound, Potter had not been angry, but concerned and had helped Draco to the bathroom, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other holding his hair back as he’d continued to bring up all his organs into the toilet. 

For his disgustingly annoying kindness, Draco had called him a dirty half-blood and had then proceeded to point out all that was wrong with him. Potter had stood still, his face holding an expression that Draco was not familiar with. And when Draco was done, Potter helped him back into bed and fetched him some water, his jeans still covered with his vomit. Draco had heard Granger exclaim at Potter’s clothes once he’d left Draco.

“Oh gosh, what happened?”

“He was sick,” answered Potter simply.

“I’m not surprised,” Weasley had said harshly. “We could hear him having a go at you, you know.”

Potter muttered something that Draco could not hear, but whatever it was it made Weasley scoff and Granger go, “Oh, Harry,” her voice full of pity. Granger was using that same voice now as they explained why Potter suddenly didn’t need his glasses.

The Avada Kedavra curse. That’s what Granger said was responsible. So Potter had killed someone. This, strangely enough, was comforting to Draco. It significantly increased Potter’s chance of actually being able to defeat the Dark Lord. Not because of the sudden growth in power, but because it showed that Potter had it in him. Had the ability to kill when the time came.

Draco heard Potter’s voice rising in the other room. “I _am not_ going to become the next Voldemort just because I’ve done the Avada Kedavra curse a couple of times!” Draco raised his eyebrows. He’s killed two people. 

“That’s not what we’re saying, Harry!” Draco heard Granger’s shrill voice. Draco shifted in his bed. He wanted to get out. He wanted to go outside and breathe some fresh air. But that would mean that Draco would have to start making a commitment to the Gryffindors. Then again, it was the least he could do, considering he killed Potter’s last remaining relative. Draco gulped at this thought as he heard Weasley intervening in the argument, “Okay, let’s just calm down. Harry is not turning into You-Know-Who Hermione, so let’s just calm down.”

Draco was torn. There was no way he was going back to the Dark Lord, but did he really want to stand by Potter? He may not care about what happens to the Dark Lord, but he did care about many of his followers. If Draco were forced to choose between his hate for the Dark Lord and his friendships with his followers, he wasn’t sure which one would rein. And he doubted he would ever be able to kill anyone again, and live through it.

“I wasn’t implying that he was going to go bad!” Granger sounded beside herself. “I just want him to be careful!”

Draco deliberated for a few moments. He made his decision. It was the one he thought he could live with. He felt some strange obligation to Potter after killing his aunt. He sighed and then pulled the bed covers off. He was wearing a pair of Weasley’s pajamas, but he’d managed to convince Potter yesterday to transfigure them into something decent whilst Draco had a bath. He would have done it himself if they’d give him his wand back – which Draco was confident he could use now as he’d levitated his spoon yesterday. But when he’d hobbled back into the bedroom, there lay a sleek black, silk pair of pajamas that had been slightly shrunk. Draco knew that Granger had probably done it, but he wore them nonetheless. 

He took a deep breath and walked toward the door. “I _don’t_ want to talk about this anymore,” came Potter’s firm voice. Draco opened his bedroom door and three sets of eyes immediately snapped to him.

Draco thought Potter looked very different without his glasses. In the past, Potter’s eyes were one of the first things you noticed about him. After the messy black hair but before the annoying personality. But now, they were all you noticed. Draco found it hard to look away from those large, bulbous emeralds that were now being used to scowl at Granger and Weasley.

“Now, now,” drawled Draco, pleased that his voice did not shake. “Be nice little Gryffindors and stop fighting over Potter’s impending doom, you’re giving me a headache.”

Potter rolled his eyes, Weasley snorted and Granger stomped off into the second bedroom. Weasley followed after her, throwing Draco a dirty look. Draco sat down opposite Potter who was gazing off, clearly lost in thought.

“So,” said Draco, and Potter came out of his reverie and turned his eyes to Draco. Draco wished he wouldn’t, they made him feel like he was having Legilimency used against him. “So, are they shagging yet or is Weasley still completely clueless.” Potter smiled, though it was clear he was trying not to. He didn’t answer. Draco drummed his fingers on the wood of the sofa. “So … am I expected to wear these pajamas for the rest of my life or am I to receive clothing whilst being your prisoner?”

Potter motioned next to him. There were two large bags with _Prada_ written on one and _Diesel_ written on the other. “Hermione had a ball. You should have seen how much she got for herself.”

Draco stood up and eyed the clothes. “Are these _muggle_ clothes?” Draco asked, his voice full of disdain. 

“Yes,” said Potter, warning in his voice. “Very expensive muggle clothes. We’re incognito, Malfoy.”

Draco snorted and picked up his bags. “Well, at least you seem to be better,” Potter said quietly.

“Hmm …” said Draco, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I think it was Granger’s cooking. She has a gift.” Potter heaved a sigh as Draco walked back into his bedroom. He closed the door behind himself and tipped out the clothes onto his bed. He had two pairs of black trousers; one of them seemed to be a little stretchy. He also had a pair of jeans, several t-shirts, a black cashmere sweater, and another two jumpers. There were also several pairs of underwear and socks in different colours and designs. 

Draco picked out an outfit and then went to have a shower and wash away the past.

**(())**

A day later, Draco was woken up by a loud shriek, followed by laughter. He turned to look at the “alarm clock” which read 11:05PM. 

Draco had never seen a clock quite like this one, and did not know why it was called “alarm”. So Potter had told Draco to have a nap and he’d set the alarm clock and Draco would then know exactly why they called it an alarm clock. Forty-five minutes later, Draco was suddenly woken by the deafening bleeping of the alarm clock. He fell out of bed in fright and then viciously yanked the clock out of its socket, stormed into the main room and threw it straight at Potter who flicked it away with a wave of his wand. Potter then burst out laughing whilst Weasley danced around him trying to find out what had happened and Granger went and magicked the clock back together.

Draco had then stalked back and forth, furiously yelling at Potter, using mainly expletives before realise he was yelling in French and Potter had merely raised his eyebrows, and Weasley had said, “What are you going on about?” Clearly, neither understood a word. Draco then screwed up his face and shouted, “Oh, fuck you!” He then stormed back into his bedroom, and Draco heard Potter say as Draco dropped onto the bed, “Well, I thought it was funny.”

Draco slid out of his bed as more laughter and muffled words reached his ears. He slowly walked towards the door and opened it to see what all the commotion was. An extremely odd sight met him. 

The muggle television was blaring and there were two empty wine bottles lying on the ground. There was also a packet of cigarettes – one muggle pastime that Draco was familiar with – splayed out on the carpet. One of the cigarettes was currently hanging out of Potter’s mouth. And Potter was lying flat on his stomach, topless, with Granger sitting on his upper thighs, drawing something on his lower back with her wand. And Granger’s wand had a sharp black point. She was giving him a tattoo. 

“Okay,” said Weasley, a little sluggishly. He had a half drunken wine bottle in one arm, and a book in the other. “I want this one,” he declared, brandishing the book under Granger’s nose.

“Wait your turn!” said Granger, sounding rather tipsy herself. Draco leaned against the arc of his door. He couldn’t believe it. Gryffindors getting drunk and giving each other tattoos? _These_ Gryffindors getting drunk and giving each other tattoos?

Potter let out a painful groan. “This hurts more than I thought it would,” he said, in a similar state to the other two. “Give me that.” He reached out a hand for Weasley’s wine bottle, who handed it over. Potter took a large swig rather awkwardly. Draco thought he was displaying the picture of debauchery very well - practically naked, a woman on top of him, a cigarette in one hand and a cheap bottle of wine in the other.

“Keep still, I’m almost done,” said Granger. 

“Have you chosen your phoenix picture yet, Hermione?” asked Ron, leaning over to grab a cigarette. 

“Yes, I’m having the one where he’s perched on the tree,” she answered. “Okay Harry, all done!” She waved her wand over the ink to dry it and clear it up. Potter slowly got to his feet, wine bottle and cigarette still in his hands as Granger patted the carpet for Weasley to take the spot Potter had just been occupying. 

Potter turned around to face Draco and Draco had to stop himself from staring. Potter was built like a … like a _man_. He had visible muscle definition and not an ounce of fat. His broad shoulders extenuated his small waist and Draco couldn’t help but notice how very fetching he looked, topless and barefoot with just a pair of low-riding, snug black jeans. 

Potter smiled when he spotted Draco and walked towards him. “You’ve got a mirror in here, don’t you?” Draco suddenly felt very angry. _Stupid, sexy, Potter with his perfect chest,_ thought Draco. _I hope somebody stabs you right in a peck._

Potter slid past Draco to get into his room, causing a friction that Draco could have done without but Potter seemed oblivious. Potter flicked the light switch on and turned around at the full length mirror and gazed into it over his shoulder, inspecting his tattoo of a phoenix taking flight. “This is really good, Hermione!” Potter called out, taking another swig of wine. “I think you missed your calling.” There came a derisive snort from behind Draco. 

“So,” said Draco, not without contempt, “decided to get drunk and then decided to get matching tattoos?”

“No,” said Potter cheerfully, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Decided to get matching tattoos then thought it best to get drunk first.” Draco couldn’t help but smile at that. Then Potter said something very unexpected. “Do you want one too?”

Draco laughed loudly and mockingly. “No! But I’m sure I’m grateful for the offer.”

Potter shrugged nonchalantly. “Suit yourself.”

“He’s already got one anyway,” said Weasley, his voice full of spite. Draco turned around to face Weasley at this and was about to shove Granger off his freckly backside when Potter steered him away from the unaware two by grabbing him by the shoulder. Potter pulled him back into his bedroom and shut the door, and then shook his head as if to say, “don’t do it.” 

Draco’s lip curled in anger and he looked to the door then back at Potter again, deciding who to take his frustration out on. He decided on Potter who was just standing there all calm like. He lunged for him pushing him violently into the bedside table. Potter banged his head on the way down and the sudden sight of blood pouring out of Potter’s head, quickly sent away Draco’s anger.

“I- I didn’t mean to,” said Draco in a very small voice. Potter touched his hand to his head and upon seeing the blood said, “Get Hermione.”

“I- I-” stammered Draco.

“Just get her,” said Potter, his voice not nearly as patient as it had been these last few days. A bit of self-comprehension hit Draco then and he turned on his heel.

“Granger, you better come in here. Potter’s hurt.” Granger immediately got off Weasley and rushed into the room. 

She pulled the hair back from his forehead to see the nasty gash. “What happened?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing Draco. 

“I fell backwards, hit my head on corner of the table. I think I’ve had too much to drink.” Potter didn’t look at Draco once while he lied. Draco felt even more guilt for Potter than he had before, and he realised that that was the problem. He resented being made to feel such a powerful emotion, like guilt, for Harry Potter - who he’d always thought had everything, despite what Draco used to try and take away from him.

Granger closed the wound and then helped Potter back to his feet. Potter sat on Draco’s bed and shook his head a little. “Go back and finish Ron’s tat before the ink dries.”

“If you’re sure you’re all right?” she said. He nodded his head and she kissed him on the forehead and gave him a wicked smile. “Have a rest and then we’ll play truth or dare and see if we can get Ron to admit to how far he actually got with Lavender Brown.”

By the look on Potter’s face he knew _exactly_ how far Weasely had gotten with Lavender Brown, but he nodded his head in agreement anyway.

Once Granger was away Draco made to say sorry but Potter held up his hand to shush him and flopped back onto the bed, putting his back to Draco he said, “Just go into the lounge and leave me alone for a few minutes. I need a break … I need a break from you.”

Draco left the room, a very unusual kind of feeling of hurt, now coursing through him.

**(())**

It was two o’clock in the morning, but Harry still didn’t feel like bed. Luckily, the other three didn’t either. They’d finished, by this stage, seven bottles of wine and two packets of cigarettes. Malfoy smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish, so he was just as about as drunk as Harry and Ron and Hermione by then.

“Okay, okay,” said Malfoy, a drunken smile on his face. “Granger, truth or dare?”

“I don’t like your dares,” she said, pointing her finger and giggling.

“What’s wrong with my dares? Potter didn’t have a problem with my dare,” replied Malfoy, lighting up another cigarette.

“Well,” said Harry, who had drunk so much after his run-in earlier with Malfoy he’d be lucky to remember his name when he next woke up. “ _I_ don’t have a problem splashing in the water-filled gutter screaming “I’m born again”, but I’d understand if not everyone agreed.”

Ron laughed loudly, holding up the wizard Polaroid that showed Harry doing Malfoy’s dare.

“Well whatever,” said Hermione, her eyes rolling funnily. “I pick truth.”

“A wise decision,” said Malfoy. “So then, tell me the truth, are you a virgin?”

Hermione looked like she was about to pass out. She shook her head. “Of course I am! I need to go to the loo.” Malfoy smirked as Hermione warily stood up. The smirk was not missed by Ron who began to try and stand with an angry frown on his face but Harry laughed at him and silently Stupified him. Ron, half asleep already, dropped to the floor and instantly began snoring.

“Guess the game’s over,” said Harry groggily.

“I guess,” said Malfoy. “What was Weasley’s problem?”

“Probably thinks you’re hitting on Hermione.”

Malfoy snorted at this, though his drunken state kept his voice empty of most of its malice; he still managed a disgusted frown. “That’s not likely.”

This time Harry frowned. “Why? ‘Cause she’s a _Mudblood_?”

Malfoy turned to Harry and stared at him like he had earlier that evening, when he’d first woken up. And Malfoy had done it all through truth or dare too. This look that made Harry feel like Malfoy was mentally stripping him. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what Malfoy meant by it, but it was starting to make him a little uncomfortable. “No, Potter. Not because she’s a Mudblood. Because I’m gay, Potter. I’m more likely to hit on you.”

Harry turned to Malfoy, his suspicions confirmed. “You have.”

“Have what?” asked Malfoy, that look still on his face.

“Been hitting on me,” said Harry and Malfoy’s face went ashen. “You’re lucky I’m not going to remember any of this … could make things awkward.” Harry began sliding down to the floor and was asleep by the time Malfoy had gotten over Harry’s words.

Malfoy looked at Harry’s sleeping form, suddenly feeling very sober. “Oh please God, I beg you on everything I hold sacred, don’t do this to me,” pleaded Malfoy. “Don’t make me like him.”

Malfoy dropped back onto the carpet and closed his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep, completely unaware of Hermione standing at the door to the main bathroom, her mouth agape and a stunned look on her face.

... to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Oh, but I would die if it weren’t for my beautiful beta, Kristin (a.k.a. AbundantFear). Thanks be to you! Reviews make me write faster so spread the love.


	8. The Weapon

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“The gullible often mistake the pronouncements of cynics as true insight. Cynics will warn that all men are corrupt, and that existence is fruitless. But a wise man knows that not all men are corrupt, and that life brings joy as well as sorrow. The cynics’ pronouncements are merely half-truths, the dark side of wisdom.” – David Farland_

Chapter Eight: The Weapon

Ron woke to the clattering of dishes in the sink. His hand immediately went to his head. The hang-over of all hang-overs was currently ripping his head in half. It took Ron several moments to recall what had occurred last night that had resulted in him being in such an uncomfortable position on the dirty, carpeted floor. Wine. Cheap, red, muggle wine. His brain pounded ruthlessly on his skull. Fucking muggles.

“Argh,” he groaned, as a particularly large bang of cutlery hitting the sink rang out through the room, and his head. “Stop the noise.” He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the carpet. 

“Oh, you’re up.” Ron heard Hermione put the dishes down and walk over to him. “Okay then. Your name is Ron Weasley, I’m Hermione, its noon and we’re in a hotel not far from Brighton-”

“And are you psychotic?” Ron grumbled into the carpet. “This is information I’m familiar with.”

“Oh,” said Hermione sounding surprised. He heard her walk back to the little kitchenette. “Sorry. Harry woke up an hour ago with no idea about anything. He’s been throwing up in the bathroom for the last forty minutes.”

“Please don’t talk about vomit.” Ron squinted his eyes, suddenly very aware of how bright the sun was. “What about Malfoy?”

Hermione made a strange noise in the back of her throat. “He woke up just after me. Had a headache, but that’s it. I heard him have a shower earlier, but I think he’s gone back to bed now.”

“Good plan.” Ron closed his eyes, ready to sleep it off.

“Oh no you don’t!” exclaimed Hermione. “This is our opportunity!”

Ron turned his head to look at her, her eyes wide and a big smile on her face … surely not?

Hermione picked up a steaming mug and walked back over to him. “Drink this coffee; it’ll make you feel better. Then we can do it.”

Ron’s eyes enlarged.

“Oh come on,” said Hermione. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?” She put her hands on her hips. “Harry’s past-out in the toilet. We can just go wake Malfoy up and Harry won’t have to know.”

“Oh,” said Ron, suddenly comprehending Hermione. “Interrogate Malfoy. That’s what you’re talking about.”

Hermione shook her head confusedly. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“Interrogating Malfoy,” Ron answered quickly. “I just … you know … hang-over.”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “Okay. Drink your coffee.” 

Ron and Hermione had decided only hours after Malfoy’s arrival five days earlier; that there were things Malfoy wasn’t telling them. They were determined to find out what these things were. They had gone to Harry about it, but he had told them to leave Malfoy alone, that the Slytherin had been through enough and he needed time to mend, not just from his physical wounds. 

Whilst Ron and Hermione could concede that Malfoy wasn’t the complete villain they would have liked him to be, they were becoming increasingly scared of Harry’s refusal to see Malfoy for what he was. A scheming bastard who only cared about himself. Harry was going to get burnt, and damned if his best friends were going to sit still and let it happen.

Ron quickly drank his coffee and willed the throbbing in his head to go away. It didn’t, but he sluggishly got to his feet anyway. As he stretched he felt his skin pull at the small of his back. “Ouch,” said Ron, and he suddenly remembered why they had got drunk in the first place. To psych themselves up for their tattoos. 

“Mine hurts a bit too,” said Hermione as she opened the main bedroom’s door, where Malfoy was residing. This had irked Ron as well – the sleeping arrangements. He and Harry were sharing the second bedroom – that had two singles – and Hermione was forced to sleep on the couch. In Ron’s opinion, that’s were the Death Eater should’ve been sleeping.

Malfoy was curled up into the fetal positing, the doona covering him entirely, but for a few wisps of his blonde hair that stuck out at the top, and a bit of his denim jeans that stuck out at the bottom. 

Hermione closed the door, loudly. Malfoy jerked and slowly pulled the doona cover off. He caught a glimpse of Ron and Hermione and groaned, covering himself again. “Sod off, my head hurts enough without having to look at you two.”

Ron bit his tongue for the moment, but his patience had been getting thin over the last few days. If Malfoy wasn’t careful, he’d be at the receiving end of a rather nasty Bat-Bogey Hex. Ginny had taught him well.

“We aren’t leaving,” said Hermione, coolly. “We need to talk.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to you, so go shag Weasley and leave me alone,” came Malfoy’s muffled reply.

“No,” said Hermione, firmly and loudly. Ron noticed though, that she had reddened around the cheeks and was pointedly avoiding his eye.

Malfoy pulled the doona cover off again, looking at them exasperatedly. “What the fuck do you want?”

“We want to ta-”

“Yes, yes. You want to talk, we established that, _what_?” said Malfoy sliding out of the bed, fully clothed in the muggle clothes Hermione had picked out for him.

“We need you to answer some questions for us,” said Ron.

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and looked to the closed door. “Where’s your fearless leader?”

“Violently vomiting in the bathroom,” answered Hermione. She gave Malfoy a weird, knowing sort of look. “He doesn’t remember a thing about last night.”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered for a very brief moment, but otherwise he paid no heed to Hermione’s look. “Well, what do you want to ask me?”

“What do you know about Voldemort’s weapon? The one he was trying to get by stealth?” asked Hermione. Malfoy’s eyes widened a little and Ron was pleased to see he looked a little frightened at the prospect of betraying Voldemort.

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said darkly. “Only the Dark Lord himself, and maybe Snape and Dolohov know about that.”

“You must know something, you know it exists. You must have heard something, seen something-”

“I don’t know anything,” snapped Malfoy, looking very nervous now. Ron wondered if Malfoy was going to fall back into his depressed stupor, like he had when Harry had tried to question him. Ron decided he didn’t care.

“Where did you get the golden horse?” asked Ron, deciding to give up on the weapon for a moment and try something else.

“Why do you want to know?” came Malfoy’s immediate reply, his eyes flashing tensely.

“Because we do,” said Hermione. “And you are in no position to be arguing or negotiating. We can send you right back to where we found you.”

“ _Found_ me?” Malfoy scoffed. “Is that what you’re calling _kidnapping_? You idiots came and took me from my home and then fed me some bullshit story about my father _wanting_ you to. And then you hole me up in here for a week, hiding my wand from me, feeding me crap and dressing me in muggle clothes, refusing to let me leave and breath some fucking fresh air,” Malfoy was getting himself into a rant now. His pale cheeks had coloured and his fists were clenched. “And now you come in here, when my head is on the verge of exploding and try and pump me for information when you won’t even tell me where we are-”

“Do you really think we would?” said Ron, frustrated. “We can’t trust you. We can’t tell you anything, not until you give us a reason to. Why can’t you just tell us?”

“Because my information is the only thing that’s stopping you from throwing me out!” shouted Malfoy. His eyes widened at what he’d said, and he then clamped his hand over his mouth. 

Ron was shocked. Malfoy _wanted_ to be with them. Ron, inadvertently, finally felt some sympathy for Malfoy. He must have been going through a seriously rough time to want to be with _them_ over his Death Eater family and friends. 

Silence reigned for a moment as Malfoy avoided their eyes. “Look Malfoy, we aren’t going to throw you out,” Hermione said calmly, taking a step toward him. 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Stay away from me you filthy Mudblood!” He then viciously pushed her to the ground and ran out of the bedroom. Ron stood still for a moment, hovering over Hermione, unsure about whether to help her or go after Malfoy. Too late, Malfoy was out the front door. 

Hermione got to her feet. “Oh no,” she said, rubbing her arm where she’d fallen. There was footsteps coming towards them and Ron thought Malfoy might’ve come back. But it was Harry with wet hair – he’d just had a shower.

“What’s going on?” he asked quickly. He glanced around the room and his face went white. He looked at them suspiciously. “Where is Malfoy?” 

**(())**

Remus Lupin looked over the parchment again, hoping to find another clue. He’d read it so many times that the paper was starting to thin. He sighed wearily, and read it again.

_Remus Lupin,_

_This parchment will disintegrate into nothingness if any other than you read it. This letter contains information concerning the Dark Lord’s activities. Through spells of the Dark Lord’s own, I am unable to tell you everything, but there are some things I am able to divulge._  
Firstly, he will attack Hogwarts. I am unable to tell you when, but your greatest fear may keep you away when it happens.  
I am unable to tell you how, but secret maps will not be of any use to him.   
Secondly, he has the weapon. He knows how to use it. Only the boy may override his command of it.  
Time is near. Make sure the boy is ready. 

Remus sighed again. Obviously, Voldemort was going to attack Hogwarts when it’s a full moon. That’s what the anonymous writer must have meant when they said “ _your greatest fear may keep you away_ ”. And the reference to secret maps must’ve been the Marauders Map … _will not be of any use to him_ … that meant he would not use any of the secret entrances. So that left the sky, the lake, the Forbidden Forrest and the front gate.

Remus breathed in the musky air of Grimmauld Place. The second bit of information was what really scared him. They could remove everyone from Hogwarts; no one need die if they choose to give it freely to Voldemort. But if Voldemort had the weapon …? Remus shuddered.

_Only the boy may override his command of it._ Well, that was fine except that Harry had been missing for two months now. No one had been able to find him, but for his anonymous informant that had sent a letter claiming Harry had been seen near Brighton. This information wasn’t much use. Harry was likely to hide himself in the muggle areas and they had little hope of finding him in that case. Harry and Hermione knew how to live in the muggle world. They would not be found. Not unless they tracked their magic, but then the Ministry would also be able to find them, and Remus knew that Harry would not be on a holiday. He was clearly doing something important.

Remus moved from behind his desk to get a fresh piece of parchment. He would have to call a meeting straight away. They would have to find a way to figure out if their informant’s information was accurate, or just a set up. And they would have to decide whether or not to force the issue with their hunt for Harry.

Remus could feel the walls closing in around him. The end was coming, and Remus wasn’t sure if they’d be ready.

**(())**

Harry had been running up and down the muggle streets for over an hour. He’d seen no sign of Malfoy and Harry was beginning to get extremely frustrated.

Ron and Hermione had told him what they’d done and he was furious with them. Any information that Malfoy could give, Harry was keen to get. But he had realised after that first night in Privet Drive, that Malfoy was not ready to talk. He had his own, inner demons to deal with before he could start to face the ones in the real world. 

Harry wished that Ron and Hermione could’ve lain aside their past with Malfoy, and had just listened to him. He knew they meant well, but if they ended up being responsible for losing Malfoy … Harry would worry about Malfoy if he didn’t find him. Harry was surprised to realise it, but he cared about Malfoy. He cared about all the Slytherins that he had once mentally persecuted. They were victims too, in their own way.

Harry ran off the main strip of shops and down an alley the led to the first few grains of sand, signifying a beach. Harry ran towards it, the cold wind smacking his face. He wished he’d put a jumper on before leaving the hotel room and gazed around the beach. 

He sighed, relieved. Malfoy was one hundred metres in the distance, sitting cross-legged in the sand. Harry walked slowly towards him, catching his breath. As he got closer, he could see the blonde shivering away, his thin frame barely holding up in the strong, ocean breeze.

“You know this is stalking, Potter,” he said, not looking away from the water as Harry came up beside him and flopped himself onto the sand. “It’s illegal, you know.”

Harry said nothing, and they sat in awkward silence for a while, watching the waves crash onto the shore. Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “So the thing is Malfoy,” Harry began, “you were never part of the plan.”

Harry felt Malfoy turn towards him, but Harry stared straight ahead. “There are things we have to do, and you were not meant to be here. But you are,” said Harry. “And Ron and Hermione will accept it. And _you_ will accept it.”

Malfoy looked back down into the sand.

“As fate would have it, such is the epic cock-up that is my life,” said Harry, not without bitterness, “you are a part of this now. So as I see it, you have two choices; be civil and stick it out with us, or I’ll take you back to the Manor. And if you’re lucky Malfoy, you’ll see the end of this war, and Voldemort won’t be on the other side of it.”

Harry heard Malfoy sigh deeply. “You see Malfoy; even your father knew you weren’t cut out to be a Death Eater. That’s why he sent me. But you need to realise, that that’s a _good_ thing. And I know, that you can’t stand the thought of working with a blood traitor, a half-blood and a Mudblood,” said Harry. “But we’re all you’ve got right now. And we, even Ron and Hermione, want you to see the other side of this war.”

“Granger and the Weasel couldn’t care less about me,” said Malfoy darkly. “And you would happily sacrifice me to save a common muggle.”

Harry decided to ignore the second part of Malfoy’s statement, but replied to the first. “They do care. They care because your one of us.” Harry looked to Malfoy. “Anyone of us could have been you. Could have had parents that infused into us this belief that blood-lines matter. Could have been sorted into a house the feeds on the angriest and darkest of our emotions. Could have had an enemy that was exactly like us, but at the same time, the exact opposite, and therefore constantly compared to us.”

“You mean you?”

“Yes, I mean me,” said Harry, a little impatiently. “But that’s all over now. House loyalties, blood-lines … none of that’s going to matter when you’re at the receiving end of Avada Kedavra, when your friends are, when your family is. Do you get that?” 

Malfoy turned away and nodded his head. “Yes, I get that.”

“Ron and Hermione shouldn’t have asked you those things,” said Harry. “They shouldn’t have pressured you. You can tell us what you know when you’re ready.”

Malfoy made no reply to this, and Harry continued. “We’re killing Voldemort. That’s what we’re doing. His soul has been divided into seven pieces, and trapped inside objects. We’re hunting down those objects, destroying them one at a time.”

“You mean like horcruxes?” whispered Malfoy, sounding frightened.

“Yes,” said Harry, surprised at Malfoy’s knowledge. “That golden horse was one. That’s why we wanted to know about it.”

Malfoy looked at his shoes, clearly trying to figure something out. “I got the statue from my Aunt Fiona. She was the one that came upon you when you too took me from the manor. She said she got it from a friend.”

“Fiona …” said Harry, something had triggered when Malfoy had mentioned her the first time, but he’d forgotten about it in the bustle of the events that had followed. “In the diary! My dad wrote about her in his diary,” Harry said suddenly. “Christ, I think he even mentioned you!” Harry stood quickly and Malfoy followed suit.

“He talked about me?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out Malfoy’s wand, he handed it to Malfoy, who took it without comment. “Unless, you have a cousin. He said, “Fiona’s nephew” or something, before all that stuff about Regulus-”

“Regulus Black?” exclaimed Malfoy as they headed back toward the alley that had lead down to the beach.

“Do you know him?” 

“He and Aunty Fee were involved when they were teenagers. She was really upset when he was killed, mother talks about it all the time,” said Malfoy quickly.

“Then he must have given her Gryffindor’s horse!” said Harry.

“ _Gryffindor’s_ horse?” asked Malfoy.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Wherever possible, Voldemort tried to use objects belonging to the original founders of Hogwarts.”

“How do you know all this?” Malfoy asked as they entered the main strip of shops again, and began dodging muggles.

“Dumbledore,” said Harry, not elaborating further.

“Oh,” said Malfoy, suddenly uncomfortable again. “Um, well how many horcruxes have you found?”

“Four. There are two left, and then what’s left in Voldemort himself.” Harry saw Malfoy shudder. He wanted to ask Malfoy, for about the one hundredth time, what had happened to him that had made him so emotionally frazzled of late, but once again decided not to. “My father was looking for the horcruxes with Regulus Black. He has a map in his diary showing where all the horcruxes are.” 

“That’s handy,” said Malfoy, eyeing off a cappuccino in the hands of muggle man bustling through the street. Harry noticed. “Come on,” said Harry, motioning toward the café across the street. 

Harry brought Malfoy and himself cappuccinos to go and they talked a mile a minute all the way back to their hotel. Harry filled Malfoy in on the Cup of Hufflepuff, which resulted in Malfoy revealing that the painting had spoken directly to him about it. Harry was relieved when Malfoy said he never told Voldemort about the cup being taken. 

Someone watching them would never have known that Malfoy had broken Harry’s nose a year ago, and Harry had given Malfoy a black eye a year before that, and that they had been bitter rivals for six years, finally culminating in Malfoy becoming a Death Eater and Harry becoming the Chosen One. Malfoy seemed pleased to be proactive and Harry was happy to have another opinion.

When they returned to the hotel room, Harry instantly pulled out the diary and showed Malfoy the map at the little kitchen table. 

“That’s the Manor!” he exclaimed, pointing at the dot that was not to far from where they currently were. Harry noticed Ron and Hermione hovering near them, but he did not acknowledge them.

“Yes, Riddle’s diary. I destroyed that in second year, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Malfoy’s eyes bulged. “I’ve seen that diary. Not too long ago in my father’s study. It’s got this gaping big hole in it and there’s ink all over it.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Harry. “I stabbed it with a Basilisk fang,” he said indifferently. 

Malfoy snapped his head up at him. “You’re fucking crazy. No wonder you’ve nearly died about a billion times,” he drawled. “It’s called self-preservation, Potter. It’s not _completely_ selfish, you know.”

“Whatever,” said Harry, not really listening. “Do you know any of these places?” 

“ _What are you doing_?” shrieked Hermione at Harry, and they immediately stopped. “Why are you showing him? What if he goes and tells Voldemort?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to say something, no doubt nasty. “Bite your tongue,” Harry quickly interjected, giving Malfoy a reproachful look. “He’s not going to Voldemort, Hermione. He’s with us.”

Hermione opened her mouth but nothing came out. Ron looked down, and then said, “Okay then.” Hermione still looked disbelieving, but Ron took her hand and gave her a look and she slowly nodded her head. Harry smiled at them, gratefully.

“I know that place,” said Malfoy quietly, looking at the dot in southern Scotland a little anxiously. “That’s where the Dark Lord has his meetings.”

“Do you know why he has them there?” asked Harry carefully.

Malfoy didn’t answer at first; he seemed lost in a bad memory for a minute. But at last he shook his head to clear it. “It’s where he found that snake, Nagini.” Silence reigned for a few moments as they all thought on Malfoy’s words.

“Of course!” exclaimed Hermione, momentarily forgetting her anger in the wake of a revelation. “Nagini’s a horcrux too! It makes perfect sense. That’s why Voldemort can possess the snake, because he _is_ the snake, fundamentally speaking.”

“But that’s not good,” said Ron. “Isn’t the snake always with Voldemort? When will you get a chance to kill the snake?” he said, glancing over to Harry.

“Maybe when …” Malfoy began and then stopped. 

Harry turned to him. “Maybe when what?”

He took a deep breath, like trying to drum up some courage. “Maybe when he attacks Hogwarts, you’ll be able to do it.”

Harry looked to Ron whose face had gone ashen. Hermione voiced what they were all thinking. “We need to find the fifth horcrux before then. If he attacks Hogwarts, then we’ll have to be there. It’s where you’ll face him Harry,” she said, and then with some feeling, “it’s where you’ll kill him.”

**(())**

The office didn’t feel like hers. Minerva McGonagall was Headmistress of Hogwarts, but she did not feel like this office was hers. It was Albus’. It would always be Albus’. 

It felt strange to sit behind the desk. Sometimes she would work on the other side, just to settle her anxiety and the portrait of Albus would stare down at her knowingly and she would cry.

She looked down at the owl she had just received from young Lupin. He had news for them. So did she. There was a spy at Hogwarts. She didn’t know who it was though. Could it be tiny, Professor Flitwick? Witty, Professor Sinistra? Surly, Madam Pince? Or sweet, Madam Pomfrey? She didn’t know.

She thought of her students, and how brave they were. Practicing day in and day out. Working on their spells and curses. She had gone down to the Room of Requirement a few times to teach a class, as had other teachers. She had shortened other classes so that they had time every day for their Dumbledore’s Army meetings. Every student left in the school was in the club.

Ginny Weasley was the very face of courage. Minerva would make sure that girl was Head Girl next year …

She wrote a quick reply to Lupin, saying she would be there and sent her owl on its way, hoping that the news Lupin had, was of the good variety. Minerva had had enough bad news to last her a lifetime. And her life was nearly up.

**(())**

Hermione had never been to Ireland before. Like so many other places she had been to in the last two months, she wished she could have come under different circumstances. She sighed wearily and Ron took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. She smiled gratefully at him as Harry and Malfoy ran back to the large oak tree where they had been waiting for them. It was about two hundred metres from the main gate to _Dublin’s National Park of Magical Creatures and Creations._

“The park’s all closed off. There’s security wizards and stuff,” said Harry, slightly out of breath. 

“And they’ve got dogs,” added Malfoy darkly.

Hermione considered for a moment, the best course of action. It had been her idea to come here, to Dublin. Upon Harry revealing their plan to Malfoy; it seemed the logical thing to do. They had already wasted a lot of time and there was still two dots left on James Potter’s map. This one and the one in central London. Hermione had chosen this one as her three companions had all shrugged their shoulders when she’d asked them to make a decision.

“Alright, we don’t want to attract attention to ourselves,” said Hermione, gazing up at the slowly darkening sky. “So it’d be best if two of us went into the park under the Invisibility Cloak, and the other two distract the security guards at the gate.” 

Harry nodded his head in agreement and began to pull out his shrunken trunk where the cloak was. “You three figure out which one’s coming with me,” he said.

“I am,” said Malfoy quickly.

Hermione gave him a look. “No,” she said. “Ron will go, you’ll stay with me.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her but she stood her ground and Ron went to Harry’s side.

Harry and Ron, typically, may have been blind to the lascivious looks Malfoy had been throwing Harry when he thought no one was looking, but Hermione was not. She remembered last night very clearly, and she wanted to have a talk with Malfoy about it.

Ron and Harry disappeared under the cloak as Hermione said, “We’ll go to the guards at the gate in about twenty minutes, so that’s how long you’ve got. Squeeze my hand or something to let me know you’ve passed.”

“No worries,” came Ron’s uncertain reply. Then they disappeared and only footsteps could be heard. Once the footsteps had faded Hermione turned to Malfoy.

“Are you okay? You’re not tired or anything?” she asked, not unkindly. “Just thought you might still be recovering from your ah, incident.”

Malfoy looked away from her, a scowl on his face. He slid down the trunk of the big oak and sat down, leaning against it. “I’m fine.”

She nodded her head. “Good.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot, trying to find the right words. She decided there wasn’t anyway to do it but to be frank, and as Malfoy was looking her incredulously – clearly aware of the fact there was something on her mind – she decided to just blurt it out. 

“Are you into Harry?” 

Malfoy looked away from her, a knowing smirk on his face, his suspicions of her thoughts clearly confirmed. “I am not _into_ him, as you’ve so eloquently put it. I’m just attracted to him,” he said easily and without embarrassment. 

Hermione frowned at this, not sure whether or not to believe it. Malfoy looked unperturbed, carefully skinning a small, fallen branch of the oak.

“So you don’t like ... _like_ him?”

“No, I don’t. He’s nice to look at, that’s all,” said Malfoy. “Any straight woman or gay man would agree. It doesn’t mean anything, Granger. And really Granger, “Do I like, _like_ him?” What are you, twelve?”

She went red in the cheeks, but otherwise ignored the jibe. “Hmm,” said Hermione, her eyes narrowed questioningly. “You don’t seem concerned about me knowing. I could tell them, you know.” She jerked her head towards the park, referring to Harry and Ron.

“I’m not concerned, because it’s not important. It is what it is, nothing more, nothing less,” Malfoy drawled easily. “And you won’t tell Potter, because it might upset him, and you won’t tell Weasley because he’ll probably try and hurt me, and again, that will upset Potter.” 

She put her hands back on her hips and paced back and forth in front of him. “I believe you’re being truthful about not wanting to return to Voldemort and the Death Eaters,” said Hermione stoutly. Malfoy stiffened. “But I still don’t trust you, you want to know why?”

Malfoy snorted. “Not really.”

Hermione flushed. “Because you’ve never done anything unless you could see what was in it for you. And if a better option comes along, you might just ditch us. And you might just betray us. And _that_ would upset Harry.” Hermione shook her head at him. “Harry doesn’t _really_ trust you, you know. He just wants to. Because he needs to believe that there’s good in everyone. And Ron and I, we’re worried you’re going to hurt him, and he’s already been through so much-”

“Shut-up Granger,” snapped Malfoy nastily. “You presume way too much about my character. And I’m done talking about this.” 

Hermione was about to reply when there was a sudden flash of light inside the park, and the booming sounds of large dogs barking. They looked at each other, eyes wide, before running towards the gate. The booming barks got closer and they could hear the sounds of men and women with Irish accents calling to each other. They hadn’t even reached the gate when it was suddenly thrown off its hinges and out came Harry, dragging Ron.

Hermione ran forward. “What happened? Are you alright?” The shouting and barking was almost on top of them. 

“He was attacked by the dogs. Quickly, get him back to the oak, I have to get the cloak,” Harry was running back into the park before Hermione could protest and a particularly painful groan from Ron turned her attention away.

“Help me, Malfoy!” she shouted as she grabbed Ron under one of his arms. Malfoy hesitated for a moment and pulled a face, but grabbed Ron under the other arm all the same. They heaved him to his feet and awkwardly ran back to the oak, hiding behind it.

“The dogs,” Malfoy said, once they’d lain Ron on the ground. Hermione looked back and could see five German Shepherds and two Border Collies exiting the park, their wizard owners spurring them on. “They’ll be able to smell us,” Malfoy said, sounding a little panicked.

“We have to hide our scent,” said Hermione. She wracked her brain until a spell hit her. _“Decadi!”_ she said, pointing her wand at Ron, repeating the spell on Malfoy and then herself. 

She carefully peered behind the tree. The dogs were sniffing the air, but the scent was gone. Suddenly they turned back toward the park; their owners encouraged them to track the new scent.

“They lost us,” whispered Hermione. “I think they’ve picked up Harry’s scent. Oh, I hope he’s alright.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Ron, painfully. Hermione dropped down to inspect his wounds. He had a large bite on his arm that was bleeding heavily, and more scratches and bites on his legs and hands. Luckily, his neck and torso was fine. 

“You should have seen him, Hermione,” Ron said, sounding awed. “We were about to leave, there was nothing in the mausoleum but this statue of a woman holding her hand up in the air, and she was looking at it like there was a great big ring on it so-”

“So this is the place Dumbledore found the ring?” answered Hermione, conjuring bandages to wrap around Ron’s bleeding limbs.

“Yeah, looks that way. But then these guards came at us out of no where, and Harry just held his wand up and _bang_ all six of them went flying,” said Ron, his eyes wide with shock. “And then the wizards with the dogs came from behind us and the dogs got me, and the wizards all threw some curses and stunning spells at Harry, all at once, and Harry just waved them away, and then he spelled the dogs away and then we ran out.”

Hermione looked up at Malfoy who was looking out into the night, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry. The barks of the dogs had faded far into the distance. 

Hermione, done with bandaging Ron, stood up beside Malfoy, looking for a sign of Harry. She suddenly heard footsteps approaching the tree; Harry appeared, pulling the Invisibility Cloak off. He was breathing heavily.

“You guys alright?” he asked, looking for Ron. “You right, Ron?”

Ron nodded his head and awkwardly got to his feet. “Superficial wounds, nothing deep.”

“Good,” said Harry taking a deep breath. 

They took a moment to gather themselves until Malfoy interrupted the silence. “Well, this was a dead end,” he said. “Please say we get to eat now.” 

Harry let out a short laugh. “Yeah, let’s go find a hotel or something.”

Harry led the way, helping a limping Ron along. Hermione watched Malfoy’s eyes linger on Harry’s backside for a moment. He turned to her and smirked, following after Harry. She frowned and followed in his wake.

... to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Thank you to my beta, Kristin. She is the queen, I bow to you. If you want more, you need to review.


	9. The Beginning of the End

  
Author's notes: Post HBP. HD Slash. Harry attempts to continue his fight against Lord Voldemort, but something inside him seems to be holding him back. Meanwhile, Draco considers the events of the last twelve months and finds himself discontented and depressed.  


* * *

**THE CROOKED HEART**

_“There is freedom without trying to catch the deluge in a paper cup.” – Neil Finn_

Chapter Nine: The Beginning of the End

Harry flicked on the television in the muggle hotel room. The late news was on and an Irish accent reported that there had been no new developments on the recent massacres in England, Germany and Canada. 

Harry sighed and looked out the window at the half moon. Harry had been keeping an eye on the muggle news in hopes of hearing more about Death Eater activity. They couldn’t have a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ sent to them without drawing Ministry attention, so muggle intelligence was the best informant they had. 

The attack in Surrey had been the first massacre. The very next day a similar attack in Kassel, Germany and the day after that – Winnipeg, Canada. Death Eaters from all over the world were massing and Voldemort was growing in confidence. He would make his final strike soon.

A loud, grunting snore turned Harry’s attention away from the moon outside. Ron and Hermione had both gone to bed a couple of hours before. They were planning to leave Dublin and return to London the next day. They’d had a long day, running around that park, and needed rest.

Malfoy had disappeared into his room almost the moment they’d checked in to the hotel and Harry assumed he was sleeping. With Hermione and Ron sharing the room with the two singles, and Malfoy in the master room, Harry had the couch. 

Harry wished he could sleep, but his mind was far too full to calm down enough for it. Harry switched the television off, cutting the German correspondent off. 

“Did you mean what you said?” 

Harry snapped his head around the couch he was lounging on. Malfoy was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Did you mean what you said?” repeated Malfoy.

“Did I mean what?” Harry asked, turning back around as Malfoy walked over to him.

“What you said to me back at your aunt and uncle’s house,” said Malfoy, sitting at the other end of the couch and throwing his legs onto the coffee table. “You said you’d protect me.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You remember that? I thought you’d forgotten all about that night.”

Malfoy let out a small sigh. “I had, mostly. I just remembered then.”

“Oh.”

“So,” Malfoy implored. “Did you mean it?”

“I mean most things I say,” replied Harry.

“Is that a yes?” Malfoy asked.

Harry turned his gaze to him. “Why do you care?”

Malfoy looked away from Harry’s scrutinizing stare and cleared his throat. “I just think I might need it, is all. Your protection, I mean.”

“Right,” said Harry, looking away again. “Well, you’ll need protection from Ron and Hermione if you don’t shed some more light on the impending Hogwarts attack.”

Malfoy bristled. “I’ve already told you, I don’t know anything about it. Just that it’s happening.”

Harry didn’t reply. For reasons he didn’t completely understand, he wanted to believe Malfoy; but he couldn’t help being distrustful, no doubt a habit yet to be squashed. Malfoy sat next to him stubbornly though, waiting for Harry to make a response.

“I said I’ll protect you and I will,” said Harry, backtracking,

Malfoy made a face at Harry’s change of subject. “So you _will_ protect me?” he said after a moment, playing a long.

“Well I just said I would,” said Harry impatiently. 

Harry had noticed that his conversations with Malfoy for the last couple of days, tended to be awkward and circular. Like they were trying to avoid something, but Harry didn’t know what or why. Prior to this awkwardness, for a day at least, they had got on well and Harry had hopes of them forming some kind of understanding. But right now there was only … well … awkwardness.

They sat in silence for a few seconds, avoiding each other’s eyes when Malfoy suddenly turned to him, a smirk on his face. “Have you really only kissed two girls?”

Harry snapped his head to Malfoy again. “How do you know that?”

Malfoy’s smirk deepened. “Your spectacular Gryffindor-drunk-tattoo-fiesta night. We played truth or dare, remember?”

“Actually no,” said Harry frowning, “I don’t remember.”

“Well that’s how I know,” said Malfoy. “So, just the two?”

Harry looked away. “Yes, just Ginny and Cho Chang. What’s wrong with that?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing,” said Malfoy, mischievously. “It’s just, you know, I’m gay and _I’ve_ kissed more girls.”

“You’re gay?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Also established on aforementioned Gryffindor fiesta,” said Malfoy quickly. “So who was better? The Weasley girl or the Ravenclaw strumpet?”

Harry blushed and cursed himself for doing so. “I dunno,” he said too quickly.

“Sure you do,” said Malfoy in a strange voice that he’d been using on Harry of late. One that made Hermione scowl.

“No I don’t, because I don’t think about things like that,” said Harry, still red in the cheeks.

Malfoy smiled strangely at him and in the back of Harry’s mind he was vaguely aware that Malfoy seemed to be flirting with him. Something Harry would’ve thought a ridiculous notion had Malfoy not just revealed he was gay. This sudden comprehension made Harry’s blush return stronger than ever, and Harry was surprised that he wasn’t completely disgusted by the idea.

“Hmm,” said Malfoy. “Maybe neither was that great? Or maybe _you_ just aren’t that great?”

Harry glared, his face full of indignation. “What do you know about my snogging abilities?”

That smile returned. “Did you have sex with one of them?” Malfoy teased, unaware that the answer to that question was affirmative.

Harry said nothing, but gave himself away by determinedly looking in the other direction and crossing his arms self-consciously. 

Malfoy seemed annoyed. “It was the Weasel girl, wasn’t it?” He snorted. “I’m not surprised. I saw you two at school. She looked like she was gagging for it.”

Harry looked angry. “You just shut up and don’t say anything to Ron.”

“Say what? That you think his little sister is a shit snog or a shit shag?”

“I never said that!” shouted Harry, standing quickly.

“You didn’t have to say it. The fact you didn’t say anything was proof enough,” said Malfoy, his strange annoyance gone to be replaced with amusement.

“Well like I said, what would you know?” Harry said, crossing his arms angrily, dimly aware that this conversation was becoming mightily childish. “I suppose you’re just a fabulous snogger?” 

“Of course,” said Malfoy with a smirk and little laugh. 

“Prove it,” dared Harry.

Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow before standing up and moving towards Harry. Harry threw up his arms to stop him, realizing what he’d just suggested. “Christ, I didn’t mean with me!” He stepped back quickly until his back was to the door of Ron and Hermione’s bedroom.

Malfoy pushed Harry against it and Harry stiffened in shock. “I think you did,” Malfoy said. 

Malfoy had a firm hold of Harry’s arms and he was flushed against him more than was appropriate. Harry, being stronger, could have easily pushed him away, but he was frozen to the spot. Malfoy looked at Harry’s face intently and Harry watched, slightly horrified, as Malfoy’s grey eyes swept over his jaw, his cheeks and his mouth before finally coming to rest on his eyes.

“Yes, I think you did mean with me. You just don’t know it yet.” Malfoy let go of Harry’s wrists and stepped back from him. He gave a little smirk before turning on his heel to return to his bedroom, leaving Harry against the wall, trying to form a coherent explanation for what had just happened. 

It was awfully difficult to do as his head was full of shining grey eyes.

**(())**

The next morning, as Ron and Malfoy packed their things in the hotel room, Harry and Hermione walked together to the reception office to pay for the night they’d spent there. 

Harry had been careful not to catch Malfoy’s eye – much to Malfoy’s amusement – all morning, and had instead directed all conversation to Ron and Hermione. Unfortunately, like so many things, this behaviour did not go unnoticed by Hermione.

“Did something happen between you and Malfoy last night?” Hermione asked breathlessly, like she’d wanted to ask for some time but hadn’t had the nerve.

“No!” said Harry, quickly and nervously, kicking a stone up from the road. “Why would you think something’s happened?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Because Malfoy looks smug and you look embarrassed.”

“I don’t look embarrassed!” Harry exclaimed indignantly. Hermione made no response as they walked into the muggle reception office to pay. 

Despite Hermione’s earlier reservations on the idea, they had begun bewitching their muggle money. Hermione had agreed to it as it was her fault they had no more. She’d spent the last of it at _Diesel_ and _Prada_ , buying them all clothes. 

Harry and Ron had been a little annoyed at her. She was only meant to buy a couple of things for Malfoy, but had come back with – in Harry’s opinion – an entire wardrobe for him. She’d also brought herself and Harry and Ron several tops and trousers that Harry didn’t think they needed and was only extra baggage. Hermione had said she’d take care of that. Apparently Hermione’s idea of taking care of that was throwing out all of Harry and Ron’s other clothes. 

They thanked the lady at reception and hoped that she wasn’t blamed when all those pounds were returned to their original form – rocks.

“So,” said Hermione. “Did you have a fight with Malfoy?”

Harry sighed resignedly. “Sort of … er, no. No, not really.”

“Do you know that he’s gay?” Hermione asked carefully.

Harry blushed a little, a reaction that was becoming annoyingly frequent. “Um … yeah. He told me last night.”

“Is that why you’re avoiding him?” Hermione asked disapprovingly. “I mean, there are plenty of reasons to avoid him for which I would completely understand, but his sexuality is not-”

“Hermione!” Harry interrupted. “I don’t care about that. You should know I wouldn’t.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “But there’s something I should tell you.”

Hermione took his arm and directed him away from the little units and across the road to a small park. It was a nice, crisp morning, with the promise of sunshine - the last they were likely to see as winter was fast approaching. 

It had obviously rained very early in the morning as they’d slept, as all the play equipment was sopping. Hermione subtly dried the seat of the swings with her wand and they sat down on them.

“So what do you want to tell me?” Harry asked after they’d got a few good runs on the swings - Hermione swinging up high in the air and Harry spinning the two ropes together on the spot and then letting them come undone. 

“Well,” said Hermione, dragging her feet in the dirt as the swing slowly swayed back and forth, “it’s a little delicate, this situation. There’s something I know for sure, and then something that I just suspect.”

“Right, well out with it,” said Harry, in a far better mood after his play on the swings.

Hermione nodded her head and bit her bottom lip nervously. “Out with it …” she murmured. “Okay. Malfoy’s attracted to you. He admitted it to me last night when you and Ron were in the park.”

Harry made no response but stilled the little swinging he’d been doing, staring straight ahead.

Hermione took another deep breath. “And even though he didn’t admit to this next part, I think it’s probably true that he’s … well … that he’s _into_ you.”

Harry snapped his head around to her, unable to hold back a smile and keep from saying, “ _Into_ me? God, Hermione, how old are you?”

Hermione could not hold back her own smile. “That’s what he said.”

Harry stopped smiling at once and begun comprehending what Hermione’s words meant. “So,” she implored. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know how I feel.”

Hermione frowned, clearly not expecting that answer. “But Harry,” said Hermione. “You can’t _not know_. You need to go to Malfoy and tell him to get over whatever it is that he’s got for you. Otherwise you’ll just hurt him later on if he really does like you. It’s the worst thing in the world for gay guys to fall for straight guys. They always get hurt.” Hermione looked at him disapprovingly. “Really Harry, what do you mean you don’t know how you feel?”

Harry frowned. “It means what it sounds like it means. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. There are more important things going on. Like how are we going to warn the Order about the attack on Hogwarts?”

“But Harry-”

“Hermione, please!” shouted Harry impatiently, standing up from his swing. “I know you mean well, but seriously, you need to learn to keep your nose out of other people’s business. If I want to talk to you about something, I’m perfectly capable of starting a conversation.”

He began to stalk off when he heard Hermione shout, _“Accio Somna Hedwig!”_

Harry turned on his heel and saw Hermione standing tall with her wand in the air.

“What did you just do?”

“I’ve summoned Hedwig to you so you can send an owl to the Order,” Hermione said coldly. “We better get going now, if that’s alright with _you_ Harry.”

She stalked past him, leaving him to ponder on another problem that he now had.

**(())**

Draco folded his jeans neatly into his duffel bag as Ron stuffed and scrunched his into his trunk.

“Are you angry at your clothes, Weasley?”

“What?” said Ron, disinterestedly, dropping to the ground to pick up his fallen socks.

“The maltreatment of your clothes is what,” said Draco. “I can only assume they have offended you in some way. No doubt they had the nerve to be _fashionable_.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” said Ron, only half-heartedly. 

“Careful Weasley, your class is showing through.”

“Whatever,” he said, closing his trunk and shrinking it so it was small enough to put in his pocket.

Draco frowned. Weasley had been far too accommodating of late. Nothing Draco said seemed to get to him, and there was something wrong with the world when there were Malfoy’s and Weasley’s getting along.

Draco didn’t have long to deliberate on this though. Granger smashed through the door, stalked into the bedroom and flicked her wand. Her suitcase immediately began packing itself.

She was followed by Potter, wearing Draco’s second favourite “Harry Face” – the Angry Scowl. Draco winked at him and the angry scowl was replaced, much to Draco’s delight, with his favourite “Harry Face” – the Embarrassed Huff.

“Did you two have a fight?” Weasley asked, concernedly. 

“We’re fine,” said Potter, pointedly avoiding Draco’s eye. “Let’s just get going.”

Weasley sighed in acceptance as a series of loud banging sounds came from Hermione bedroom. She was shaking out her towel, viciously beating it against the wall with a furious frown on her face.

“Hermione-” Weasley began.

“We’re fine!” Granger snapped.

Weasley turned away from her and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “bullshit”. Draco had never agreed more with Weasley in his life.

**(())**

Severus Snape fixed his mask and pulled his robes around himself tightly as the Dark Lord entered the small chamber filled with his inner circle. The identities of these men and women were meant to be secret, though Snape knew most of them and _all_ knew him. Their metal masks hid their facial expressions from view as the Dark Lord approached them.

“I am pleased with you,” the Dark Lord hissed menacingly. “Our annihilation of the muggles has gone well; the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix have not been able to stop any of it. This informs me that here stand _loyal_ followers, and that pleases me.”

Severus stifled the urge to take a deep breath.

“The day the last line of defense is destroyed fast approaches. Hogwarts Castle will soon be nothing but battle ruins. But first, my faithful followers,” the Dark Lord said carefully, his red eyes sparkling, “there is one more insect to squash, and another snake to be freed.”

Severus was thankful for his long, black robes as he clenched his hands into fists.

**(())**

_MINISTRY OVERRUN, MASS KILLINGS & NO MORE HOPE_

_This special night edition of the_ Daily Prophet _has been printed and sent out to all Wizarding Family’s. At approximately six o’clock this night, He Who Must Not Be Named’s Death Eaters and other followers (including werewolves, giants and Dementors) stormed the Ministry. Floor after floor became overrun and the Death Eaters killed all in sight._

_A Wizengamot was taking place at the time. It was believed to have been the acquittal of suspected Death Eater, Stan Shunpike. The Death Eaters killed all in the Wizengamot Courtroom, including Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour. A full list of the dead can be found on page three._

There was more but Harry put the paper down and stopped reading out loud, his throat was dry. Hedwig gave a soft hoot, wondering why Harry was not being more appreciative to her presence. 

Malfoy was skulking in the back corner of the London hotel room, looking very pale and not making a sound. Hermione was making a sort of whining noise and she was clenching Ron’s arm. Ron’s face was like steel.

“Go to the list of the dead … my whole family works at the Ministry …” Ron whispered.

“They may not have been there!” Hermione declared shrilly.

Harry took a deep breath and turned the page. He carefully ran his hand down the list of the dead, his mind numb and his heart full of dread. He recognised many of the names, Dolores Umbridge among them. Then he came to the W’s. His heart lurched. He looked at his friend, and his stomach dropped to his feet. Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and scared.

“I …” Harry tried to speak but nothing came out. 

_“Who?”_ Ron screamed loudly, making Harry and Hermione jump. Hermione began to sob. 

“P-Percy … Percy’s o-on the list.”

Ron’s face went grey, and then he looked like he was going to laugh. Then suddenly his face crumpled and he buried his face in his hands. Hermione quickly wrapped her arms around him. The room seemed to darken instantly as despair entered and Harry was completely speechless.

This was a sore sight Harry had never witnessed before. He had never seen Ron cry, and now, looking at his best friend’s heaving shoulders, Harry found that he could not watch. He stood up quickly and ran to the bedroom, Hedwig flew in after him and Malfoy dashed in behind her. 

Harry said nothing to either of them and instead pulled out a piece of parchment from his trunk, as well as an ink bottle and a quill. He brushed aside the clock and lamp on the bedside table and lent his parchment on it. The clock made a horrible crunching noise and the lamp’s light bulb shattered as they fell.

_Dear Remus,_

_We have just heard about the attack at the Ministry, and about Percy. We are in London and we need to meet you and the rest of the Order. We have some news. Please return Hedwig with your response as soon as possible, and let me know where we shall meet._

_Harry_

Harry did not bother to read it through but placed hex on it so that only Remus could read it without it setting alight. 

“Hedwig,” he called to his owl. She was perched on top of the wardrobe but came down at his beckoning. He tied the parchment to her leg, hastily. “Be quick about it, and if anyone but Remus tries to read it, peck the living shit out of them and claw the letter up, okay?”

Hedwig hooted her response and he moved quickly to the window, opening it and letting her out. He watched her fly away, and didn’t turn around even after he couldn’t see her anymore. 

“Potter …” Harry had forgotten Malfoy was there. He was chewing on his bottom lip nervously and Harry was sure he’d never seen him quite so meek. Harry turned away from him and tried to contain his emotions, the most prominent of which was anger.

Malfoy moved towards him. “Potter, I-”

“I never liked him,” Harry declared, his voice sounding very hollow. “I never liked Percy. He was arrogant and obnoxious and self-righteous. But he was a good person,” Harry choked. “I _knew_ him … I’ve lived with him … he was, for all intents and purposes, m-m-my friend.”

Harry didn’t want to cry. Not because he didn’t think Percy deserved his tears, but because the ripping pain he felt was nothing to what Ron must be feeling and that made Harry feel very selfish and pathetic. Not to mention the incredible feeling of guilt Harry felt. A feeling exacerbated by the fact he felt guilty for his guilt. All his fears and dread seemed to be culminating in one moment, and Harry was finding it unbearable.

“Potter,” Malfoy was right behind him now and Malfoy gently grasped his shoulder, trying to turn him around but Harry stood stock still, trying to hold back his tears. His throat was tight and cold waves of dread kept flowing through him.

“Potter …” Malfoy said again in a soft, cajoling kind of voice that Harry had not thought him capable of. “Potter … Harry?”

Harry gave into Malfoy’s pleadings and turned around. He was spared the searing look of grey eyes as Malfoy immediately pulled Harry against him, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry - one around Harry’s shoulder and the other around his waist. It only took a moment before Harry settled into the embrace, burying his head in Malfoy’s neck and wrapping his own arms around him.

He began to cry embarrassingly. But Malfoy didn’t seem to mind that a practically full grown man was sobbing all over his shoulder in a very childlike way. Malfoy made calming noises in Harry’s ear and ran his hand soothingly up and down Harry’s back. And in that moment, Harry decided that Draco Malfoy was his friend. And he would not be ashamed of it.

For what is a friend but someone who comforts you when you are in the worst moments of your life.

**(())**

Officer Quiggins of Azkaban Prison watched in horror as a series of dark shapes loomed in the sky. They were a different kind of black to the sky … a discoloured, unnatural black.

Dementors. The Dementors had returned, and judging by the many cloaked figures on broomsticks surrounding them, their new masters were with them. 

There was only a moment of hesitation in Quiggins’ mind before he called to his surrounding officers, “Retreat! Retreat! Back to the Ministry!”

The officers left their posts and began sprinting for their lives towards the fireplace. Quiggins let his peers go first, counting them and hoping there would be time to get them all out. There were some in the top tower and it would take two minutes at a full sprint to reach the bottom.

Quiggins could hear the prisoners calling and taunting them, screaming in delight and banging against the bars of their cells. The noise echoed around the fortress, sending fear into their hearts and spurring the Dementors and Death Eaters on as they began their downward journey. 

Quiggins ushered his peers into the fireplace as the last remaining officers began to sprint for the main gates, but too late. The Death Eaters began swooping, sparks flying from their wands and the officers began to fall.

Soon Quiggins was all that remained by the fireplace, he scooped up the remaining floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. Green flames instantly rose and Quiggins jumped in.

The feeling of being pulled in several different directions was upon him until at last he fell into the fireplace at the other end.

Quiggins’ breath caught in his throat. The great Floo Hall at the Ministry was a complete mess. The walls and pillars had fallen and chipped everywhere. The paintings had been viciously ripped apart and many fireplaces had been blasted and Quiggins could see the bodies of the young floo guards, spread out across the hall, clearly dead. 

It took Quiggins a moment to realise that he was being spoken to as his eyes strayed over the dead body of the young man that guarded the Azkaban Floo. Quiggins snapped his mind to attention as an Auror he was vaguely familiar with spoke to him.

“What the hell happened?” he asked Quiggins, his eyes wide in shock.

“Death Eaters and Dementors. There was no way we could have stopped them there was too many,” Quiggins said breathlessly, unable to focus his eyes when so much destruction was surrounding him. “But what happened here?”

The Auror raised his eyebrows. “Death Eaters and Dementors. Scrimgeour is dead.”

Quiggins tried to process this, but could not. He aptly fainted to the ground.

**(())**

Narcissa clenched her arm were her mark lay. She was being called.

She pulled the covers of her bed off and ran to her wardrobe. She had no time to think of her fear as she pulled on her robes and slid her mask over her face. One must be prompt when being called by the Dark Lord. He was an impatient man.

Narcissa ran to her fireplace and pulled her floo powder out. You could not Apparate in Malfoy Manor, so the quickest way for Narcissa to reach the Dark Lord was to Floo to Spinner’s End and then Apparate, following the magical pull on her arm.

Before Narcissa could even wonder why she was being summoned, she stood before her master.

She was not alone in the large chamber she’d Apparated to. A great deal of masked wizards and witches circled her. The Dark Lord had summoned his most loyal followers from abroad. This was the Dark Lord’s full inner circle.

“Narcissa,” the Dark Lord hissed at her and she tried her hardest not to flinch. “You may remove your mask.”

Narcissa slid the mask off, and pulled the hood of her cloak down. She could not disguise her fear now.

“I have news, Narcissa. Your husband has returned to us.”

Narcissa snapped her head around and saw Lucius walk towards her. He looked at her indifferently. He looked thinner to Narcissa, but otherwise unchanged. He came and stood beside her.

“My lord,” Lucius said silkily, bowing his head.

The Dark Lord’s eyes glinted. “I have called you both here, to talk of Draco.”

Narcissa’s heart lifted a little. “Have you found him, my Lord?”

He smiled maliciously. “That would make no difference. Do you know why?”

Lucius was wise enough not to answer but Narcissa jumped in, “Why, my Lord?”

The Dark Lord took a deep breath and then spat out, “Because he has defected!” his voice was a poisonous hiss and Narcissa dropped to her knees.

“Surely, my Lord,” she begged, tears falling from her eyes, “surely you are mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” he said coldly and Narcissa let out a small wail and clutched her throat.

“Draco is a leader. Others will follow him. I cannot begin to tell you both how very displeased I am about this.” He paced back and forth menacingly and Narcissa could see blood lust in his face. 

“I hold you both responsible for this,” he said, turning his gaze to Lucius who bravely did not buckle. “And when I kill him, I shall let him know that his defection was your death warrant.”

The Dark Lord slowly pulled his wand out, his eyes still dangerously fixed on Lucius as Narcissa wailed on the ground.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_ called the Dark Lord. Lucius did not flinch once and when the spell was completed; the Dark Lord turned on his heel and left them. 

Lucius turned his head to his now silent wife, her eyes wide open and the glaze of life still faintly in them. He turned away from her, more resolute than ever.

... to be continued.

**(())**

**Author’s Note:** Thank you to my beta, **AbundantFear**.


End file.
